An Assassin's Childhood
by maradeux
Summary: This is my story about Zevran's childhood and youth in Antiva. It is based on Zevran's dialogues in the game Dragon Age: Origins. Zevran Arainai and Taliesen belong to Bioware. All other characters in this story are my own creation. Rated T just to be on the safe side. (translated from German. I will also publish the original version "Eine mörderische Kindheit" on FF)
1. Chapter 1: The Naughty Boy

_The frist part of the story starts with an episode of Zevran's early childhood in the whorehouse. The next few chapters are about his training with the Crows. These are childhood memories, loose little episodes, so it's not a coherent story in this part. Also: There is no Taliesin in the first few chapters. You have to wait a bit. ;)_

_Translation help for this chapter came from DreGregoire and Corker (Corkerite on FF). Thank you so much!_

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**An Assassin's Childhood**

**1. The First Years**

**1.1 The Naughty Boy**

Many women lived in his home. None of them were his mother. It was a very big house with many rooms. The women were all very pretty, wore nice clothes, painted their faces and curled their hair. There were always many visitors and there was lots of laughter.

The only problem was that he was bothersome. He should always hide, should not be heard and not be seen. If he was, then he was beaten - mostly by Olinda, a woman who was not quite as beautiful, because her face had wrinkles and was painted too much. But Olinda was the woman who gave him and the other children something to eat from time to time. So Zevran was not sure whether he should like her or not. There was another woman whom he liked without doubts, and that was Dimeloé. She always looked sad when Olinda struck one of the children. Often she took such a child to her room and told him a story. Reason enough for Zevran to ensure that Olinda had to punish him very often ...

"Why have you pulled down the wallpaper, you silly boy?" Dimeloé said with a sigh as she cooled the bruises on his legs with a damp cloth.

The blond elf boy replied with a deep sad look in his amber eyes, "I do not know why I'm always so naughty."

Dimeloé got tears in her eyes at the sight of the little angel face "If your mother would see how you have to live here, she would turn in her grave." sniffed the young elven woman.

"You knew my mother?" the boy asked and hung on her every word.

"Of course I knew her. We were best friends. She was very pretty, had blond hair - just like you. But her eyes were deep green - such as the lakes in the Arlathan Forest."

"Alata forest?"

Dimeloé giggled "Arlathan - that is Dalish and means something like 'I love this place,' Your mother was a Dalish. She wore signs on her face - curved ornaments on her forehead and cheeks. I have no idea what they meant. But she looked so beautiful and mysterious. She was very popular here, you know? "

"Why did my mom not stay in the forest?"

"She fell in love with a man from the city and left her tribe behind to follow him."

"This man - was that my daddy?"

Dimeloé hesitated with her answer. "That, my child, only the maker knows. But your mother - I know she would have loved you. She had been looking forward to her child, even though she had a lot of pain."

"What had happened?"

"When she brought you into the world, the maker had taken her to himself."

"That's mean of him!"

Dimeloé laughed touched when she saw the angry face of the little boy. But then she became serious and continued very quietly. "You know, they say the maker only takes the very best of his creatures that early."

In gold-brown children's eyes tears formed. Dimeloé took the little boy on her lap and hugged him, hummed him a song she had learned as a little girl from one of the whores - as she was also brought up here without having known her mother. "You've got these gloves, am I right, Zevran?" The boy nodded silently and stealthily moved his treasure from his pocket - finely crafted, intricately embroidered ladies gloves of a very thin leather. "They belonged to your mother. She wore them quite often. It was the only reminder of her homeland. As long as you carry these gloves with you, there will always be a part of your mom with you."


	2. Chapter 2: The Smell Of Death

_Many thanks to Jenovan for her help with the translation of this chapter!_

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**1.2 The Smell Of Death**

What's that smell? Basically disgusting, pungent, causing tears and nausea. And yet... fascinating. Zevran crept out of the house. He was a good learner, especially in these things... Hiding in the shadows. No newcomer who had yet to learn to put his steps carefully. His feet took instinctively the best path. His slim figure melted into the shades. It was only a few weeks ago that he was sold. And he had already become a model student, better than many of the older Crowlings.

Yesterday they brought him into the new accommodation, better than the first: He had his own bed here. The training was hard, but he trained with nine year olds, even though only seven. And now he had sneaked out - in the evening after dinner. It was forbidden to leave the house, but he had to find out where the smell came from. He needed to know.

He followed the shadows of the narrow streets until he reached the canal bank. The smell here was so revolting that his stomach turned and he must swallow in order not to vomit. And then he saw it - in the twilight, but still clearly visible for his sharp eyes: frames with stretched animal skins, wood blocks, buckets of stinking liquor, pots with ashes and a number of mysterious tools, as he had never seen before.

His little heart beat up to the throat as he crept closer to look at these mysterious things in more detail. Suddenly he felt a touch on the leg. Startled, he turned and looked into a toothless grin - an old woman, a beggar with a furrowed face, gray scarf and ragged clothes, crouched on the ground. The shock of his imprudence was profound. He ran and returned at home. Undetected, he thought.

"Where were you?"

The whisper came from the bed above him - Goisar also an elf boy, two years older and taller than him with black hair and eyes and a scar over his left eyebrow.

"What's that to you?"

Zevran hissed angrily.

"I tell Sergio, if you do not tell me."

Sergio was their coach, Zevran remained silent. Inaudibly he pulled something out of a bundle under his bed: a pair of gloves. His fingers stroked slightly over the fine embroidery. He laid his cheek on the soft leather and fell asleep.

As Zevran awoke the next morning, the gloves have vanished. He searched the bed off it, looked under the bed, in every corner of the room. He felt a gaze in the neck, turned around and met Goisar's eyes - cold as ice over the cynical crooked mouth. For the first time in his life Zevran felt the deep desire to kill someone...


	3. Chapter 3: The Basement

_Ingenious translation of the sonnet by corker. Thank you so much! Also thanks to payroo and Shadow of Light for their assistance!_

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**1.3 The Basement**

The silent moments  
Alone with you  
Farewell's postponement  
Till morning dew

My trembling body  
Held by firm hands  
Your voice's beauty  
Eyes burn like brands

Your arms, so strong  
Your skin, so smooth  
Your scent - it fills my breathing

Please look at me  
Just one more time  
I cannot bear your leaving

Zevran had certainly noticed that Goisar had come into the room. It did not hinder him from completing his poem calmly. Also as the older elf boy began to giggle and reached for the paper, he did not fret himself about it.

"What's that?" Goisar asked quizzically.

"That, my dear fellow, is a poem. And I wrote it for the purpose of seduction."

"I see ... firm hands, strong arms, what kind of woman do you want to impress with this?"

Zevran remained unmoved.

"You know very well, dear friend, that we are not only encouraged to seduce women. How far are you actually with your seduction homework? If I could have my poem back now, please..."

Calmly smiling, he stretched out his hand. Somewhat dumbfounded Goisar gave the paper back.

* * *

**_Combat training_**

Goisar and Zevran were constrained to compete against each other. Zevran had continued to train with older crowlings. But in contrast to his fourteen-year-old comrades the twelve-year-old was not allowed to fight with a sharp dagger yet - he only had a wooden dummy for the defense. Goisar fought bitterly. He was skillful and fast, but Zevran dodged all the blows.

"Well done, Zevran!" praised Sergio, as he walked past the two.

Zevran smiled. Goisar bared his teeth, black eyes darted sparks. He turned once and ran, his head forward, on to Zevran. Zevran dodged to the side, but - when Goisar flew past him, his upper arm was hit by the dagger. Startled he pulled his bleeding arm away, turned around. Goisar deftly used his momentum to perform a rollover, was already back on his feet, and ran now from the other direction on Zevran.

"Out! Out!"

The boys heard Sergio's sharp call penetrating the hall and stopped immediately. The coach came to a stop in front of the boys; a stern gaze went from one to the other. From half-open eyes, outwardly completely calm, Zevran observed the young man. The smooth, brown skin, which strained over the high cheekbones, the sharply arched eyebrows, the long, straight nose, the soft, almost feminine lips, then again the strong, broad chin with its dimple. Soft, brown locks, steel blue eyes, a body like carved of marble. Zevran knew his coach for five years. Back then a youth, now a young man, mid-twenties, the muscles more developed, each perfectly defined, clearly apparent under the smooth leather shirt. Zevran could have described every inch of this body, and could have written a hundred more poems about it.

"Goisar," Sergio turned to the older of the two "What kind of fighting style was that? We are assassins, no bulls. To the basement!"

At the word "basement" Goisar jerked briefly. Then - without any further hesitation - he put his dagger in Sergio's outstretched hand and left the hall.

"And you, Zevran" he turned to the younger one. Had his gaze changed? Did it seem a little milder? There was no noticeable change in his stern voice.

"What does a young Crow do, when he is injured while training?"

"He calls 'out' so that the fight stops immediately and gets his wounds treated, Sir"

Sergio nodded. "Go and get your wound treated, then you go to the basement."

Zevran smiled calmly in Sergio's face "Of course, sir," and left the hall with elegant steps.

* * *

_**The Basement**_

It was not the first time for Zevran to be down here. He could remember the first time very well – when he was just two days in the house and Goisar had tattled Zevran for creeping out in the evening. For this they were both sent to the basement: Zevran, because he had gone against the curfew, Goisar because he had betrayed a comrade. Now they were both back.

Zevran was alone in the changing room, Goisar was probably already in his cell. In the changing room the boys had to remove all their clothes, but their underpants. Berta, a small, stout woman of indefinite age; her face and short hair greasily shiny, arms and legs like tree trunks, pointed him to his cell.

These small square cabins - not more than one square meter - were completely tiled and had no own light source. Light only penetrated through a few small holes in the door which was locked from the outside. These holes had yet another purpose: From time to time, a tube stuck through one of them and cold water was sprayed on the occupant with high pressure. If one was deft, one could catch this water with the hands and drink it. If one was clumsy, one must lick the water off the walls and the floor. They did not get any food or something else to drink.

Zevran knew the best thing was to stay standing as long as possible, because the walls were ice-cold. If one was not able to stand anymore, one crouched in a corner, silently shivering with blue lips. If one was lucky, one fell asleep. Then one had to be especially careful not to cry out loud when one was awakened by the unexpected, cold water.

The length of this punishment varied between a few hours to a maximum of three days. In general it was one night. Each cry of pain would prolong the agony for an hour. There was no sound to hear from Zevran's cell this night...

It was Sergio himself, who got Zevran out of his cell the next morning. Goisar had to stay longer, because he had moaned once at night. In Zevran's face was no sign of any emotion about this. In the changing room Zevran got fresh clothes. To his surprise Sergio was waiting in front of the door, to accompany him to the upper floors.

"Today is my last day here, I leave the house," Sergio said in the neutral tone of a message. It was unusual to mention such a thing. Trainers came and went, it was never explained why. Zevran asked nothing, but he looked quietly in the young man's eyes, which seemed almost sad. Suddenly Sergio smiled, stood still and put a hand on Zevran's shoulder.

"You were the best student I've ever experienced. Don't disappoint me, do you hear? And now, go for breakfast."

He left the boy in front of the staircase and went down the corridor to the instructor's quarters.


	4. Chapter 4: The Tutor

_Chapter 4 of the story and "hello" to my first follower! :) In the German version I played with a familiar idiom: "Leichen im Keller" (= bodies in the basement). Unfortunately one cannot translate that directly. The appropriate English idiom is "to have a skeleton in the closet". _

_Haven't had any translation help for this part. Hope, it's not too bad though..._

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**1.4 The Tutor**

This was not a normal combat training. They were led into a room in the basement, all nine boys. Zevran was again the youngest, thirteen now, in the last year of his training. Once they had all lived together in a dormitory, then they were sixteen boys yet. The other seven boys had not survived the training, had died in accidents or they had simply "disappeared" at any time. For over a year they lived in the quarters of the senior students now, each three in a room. To his room apart from Goisar also Genaldo belonged, a human boy.

"Are you ready to kill?" the new tutor asked in an icy tone. He was very different from Sergio, a cold, severe man, about fifty, gray-haired and skinny. He had sadistic tendencies and regularly took boys to get into his office to attend to them personally. Whatever happened behind these door, no boy had ever lost a word about.

Pale and weak daylight fell through the shallow, barred basement window in light gray stripes on the dark stone floor. A squeaky door opened and the clanking of chains was heard. There were slaves who were brought into it, ten in number, old and young, humans and elves. They were weak and thin, had injuries or a serious illness.

The boys stood with their daggers in their hands, also Zevran was now allowed to wield one. "Make your choice," the tutor said. The boys hesitated. They knew they were trained to become assassins, but this was the first time they were ordered to kill someone. Zevran looked in the hopeless faces of these slaves and swallowed.

Eventually Genaldo was the first who came forward. He went without hesitation to the slave, who looked the oldest and infirmest, pushed his body with his feet to the ground and plunged the dagger at the heart of the old man. He pulled it out, cleaned the blade on the clothes of the dead and put it in its sheath. Then he stepped back into the ranks of the young. He looked to the ground and breathed heavily. The tutor nodded.

As Zevran noticed that Goisar wanted to move, he took a step forward. Goisar looked irritated, the younger elf smiled. He went up to the number of slaves. He had made his choice - it was a girl, an elf, about his age, her face was dirty and smeared with tears, her hair disheveled. She was emaciated, her right foot was swollen and covered with pus and pimples. The elf boy crouched to the girl and smiled at her. He lifted her chin and wiped away a tear. Then he leaned forward, hugged her and whispered something in her ear. The girl collapsed and died while he was still whispering, he had pushed her the dagger in the back between the shoulder blades into the heart.

As Zevran wanted to return to the ranks of the boys, the tutor held him by the wrist and told him to stay standing next to him. From this position Zevran watched the rest of the training. After all the boys had made their choices, nine bodies lay in the basement, one slave was still alive. A man, who looked stronger than the others, with a sullen face and a beard. He had not given a sound during the entire time.

The tutor turned to Zevran: "You were the best today, this is your destiny, what happens to him.." The young elf breathed deeply. Then he went to the slave and ask him: "Why are you here? You do not look as sick as the others?" The man did not answer, he just snuffled audibly and spat at the elf boy's feet. Zevran turned to the tutor: "I decided," he said. "This one does not accept his fate. He should get his chance. Remove his fetters, then he is given free to kill." Zevran went back into the ranks of boys. The man did not leave the room alive.

"What did you say to her?" Genaldo whispered as they lay in their beds the following night.

"I told her that I find her very pretty. And I promised her that it would not hurt."


	5. Chapter 5: Sweet Poison

_A lot of translation-help for this chapter came from Corkerite. Thank you so much! Also thanks to payroo for her help. :)_

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**1.5 Sweet Poison**

Zevran, now fourteen, had completed his basic training. He was sent to his first missions - not yet as a killer, but as a scout. Incidentally he took advantage of the opportunities to learn and to train, as well as the other young crows were doing.

It was good to be aware of their own strengths, as well as their weaknesses. The meals for the young crows were abundant, and they trained in strength and endurance daily. Nevertheless Zevran remained small and thin, even compared to other elves. He was quick, clever, agile, but he was not strong. His strikes with clubs and hammers were well placed, but they lacked the force. Dagger and sword became his favorite weapons - light and nimble to ply. Yet it took more to overcome an opponent who was physically superior. And one of the most effective media Zevran had found for this purpose were poisons.

He read books, collected ingredients and stayed in the laboratory, studied recipes, tested different mixtures and tasted minute quantities of them, to discover the effect and to immunize himself.

There was still another reason to go into the laboratory: long legs, flowing hair, budding breasts. Until two years ago Zevran was not aware that there were women and girls among the Crows. There were significantly fewer and they were brought up separated from the boys, but the lab was shared.

The brunette elf girl in the back part of the lab also operated with toxins. Zevran saw her for the second time. He closed the phial, which he had last worked with and went over to her:

"I wasn't aware such loveliness existed amongst the Crows."

The girl winked "Your tongue is already well trained for such a young lad."

"I train my tongue only with the best." He bowed with a wry smile. "Zevran Arainai..."

She returned the smile. "I am Ginera and I have to go now."

Before she did, she took the face of the pretty boy in both hands and pressed her soft lips to his. Fascinated Zevran stood still, gazed after the young elven girl, who went away with springy steps. He licked with his tongue over his lips. They tasted sweet, beguiling ... He felt like he was dizzy, his heart beat quickly, more quickly, things grew dark before his eyes. He swiftly ran to the wash tub, washed his face and drank a large cup of water. He went back to his seat, gathered up his things and returned as fast as he could to his quarters.

He had to vomit all night long.

* * *

The next morning Zevran felt weak. He got up with difficulty, held fast onto the dressing table. In the mirror a pale face, feverish eyes, much too large pupils. His stomach turned, hands shook, there was no thinking about food. And today he had a job ... He was glad that he had his own room now. Not to imagine if Goisar had witnessed his shame...

"Cursed bitch'" he hissed quietly through his teeth.

There was a knock ...

"Yes?"

It was Sergio. Ironically Sergio ... He had called his former model student in his team. Good-humored the young man opened the door and started to speak in jovial tone:

"Hey, I missed you at breakfast, you come along to .." He stopped mid-sentence when he saw Zevran "Something wrong?"

"No idea," Zevran said "I'm sick or something. Have not slept well."

Sergio seemed uncertain. He approached and laid a hand on Zevrans forehead. It was hot.

"Brasca," he said angrily and shook his hand in the air to cool it. He hesitated as if he was planning what to say or do now.

Disease was considered a weakness among the Crows. A child who was often sick, was 'sorted out'. The children simply disappeared. Zevran did not know what happened to them. And he had no idea if Sergio knew. Only one thing was clear to him: Do not talk about diseases. Best one was not even sick. But to admit that one had been gulled and poisoned - unthinkable.

Sergio closed the door from inside, one hand remained on the handle and gave Zevran a long gaze. His voice was unusually mild: "You best get quickly healthy. I need you tonight. Take some rest."

He left the room.

Zevran took a deep breath. He fetched a cup of water, he had to hold it with both hands, placed it on the bedside table and got into his bed. The room spun before his eyes, shadows of hallucinations were chasing over ceiling and walls. And he still felt lousy. But he had to be ready to do his job until the evening . And he would.

* * *

His collection of herbs had helped him. Stimulated by ephedra and caffeine, his heart beat quickly and alarmingly irregularly, his pupils were still too large, he best did not think about his stomach. But his senses were wide awake. Years of training helped him to focus and coordinate his movements as well as it was possible. It had to work.

Zevran was Sergio's top scout. He relayed the signals: quiet street, two guards at the entrance. Sergio communicated the signal to his snipers: The guards fell down, their throats each pierced by one single, strong arrow. Goisar cracked the lock, Zevran explored the dark corridor. He himself overwhelmed the kitchen maid with a narcotic and gave the signal that the corridor was safe. From here on, Sergio took only Goisar and one of his snipers along. Zevran should continue to guard the street and the entrance.

It remained quiet for a long time, but then he saw a movement - just a hundred yards away. Zevran gave a sign to the snipers on the roof and crept closer ...

From a distance of good twenty yards he could see what looked like a pair of lovers for a layperson: a gentleman and an elven girl tightly embraced in a deep kiss. Zevran recognized the elf immediately: It was Ginera. He looked carefully around, but could not see anybody on the roofs or in doorways - the elven girl seemed to be alone. How careless!

Zevran crept on. He watched, how her victim silently fell to the ground, and took advantage from the moment. With lightning speed he overwhelmed the young woman. She was lying on her stomach, her left arm twisted on her back so that Zevran could have caused great pain with a tiny movement. The left side of her face was pressed to the ground. His right foot fixed her right forearm. His left knee he pressed into her lumbar spine. His dagger was not directed at her throat, but at her cheek.

"One motion and your pretty face is ruined," he hissed, "Which toxin?"

Ginera smiled sweetly: "Belladonna, conium, amanitin. And a lot of honey."

Zevran did not know if he should admire the elven girl or declare her insane. Three of the most powerful, known toxins, each fatal even in minute doses - and she smeared this mixture on her own lips?

"Do not worry, sweetie, the dose was not lethal. In a few days you will feel better." She was still smiling.

He let her go. She rose with fairy-like elegance, walked backwards with slow steps. Her seductive smile was directed into his still feverish face. "Take care of who you kiss. And never lick your lips, young Crow."

So she turned and disappeared with quick, noiseless steps in the dark. Zevran barely resisted the impulse to lick his lips.

* * *

It was obvious that Zevran was still not healthy. But he would not waste any word on this subject as long as Sergio did not. Normally the scouts were standing at meetings of this kind, but Sergio had offered him a seat and Zevran gratefully accepted. He took a sip of water. Fortunately, his hands trembled no longer.

"Was anything else?" Sergio asked routinely, once Zevran had finished his mission report.

"Yes, obviously there was a second team on the road. I watched an elven girl killing a man. I knew her from the laboratory: Ginera."

Sergio gave him a knowing look: "Ginera? I know her. She is of Taliesen's team. Pretty girl," he smiled, "but a bit too old for you. She is eighteen."

Zevran returned the smile. "What a cute age."

"Thank you, Zevran. You can go then. And ..." A hint of concern was in Sergio's eyes and voice, "You should eat something."

Zevran looked down, was smiling as he left the room, "I know."


	6. Chapter 6: The Prospect

_Here starts part 2 of the story: A Contract with Consequences - where Zevran is involved in espionage and meets a special someone for the first time. ;)_

_Very much translation help came again from Corkerite. Do you even know how great you are? :)_

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**2. A Contract with Consequences**

**2.1 The Prospect**

"My sweet Ginera told me about an elf on your team...", The young, tall man with short dark hair and a craggy face pulled a chair at its backrest through the room until it was situated diagonally in front of the armchair in which Sergio was sitting. Then he sat down astride the chair. "She said he would look like a boy of fourteen, but would have the speed of a cheetah and the tongue of a whore." The young man gave his interlocutor an inquiring look.

Sergio grinned. He bent his left leg, put the foot on his right knee and stretched himself comfortably, folding his arms behind the neck. "Ah, you mean Zevran. He's really still very young, only fifteen."

The young man on the chair raised an eyebrow in surprise "Oh? That's why he has no tattoos yet, right? I was wondering about it."

Sergio smirked, not without pride, "He was one of my students, Taliesen. The best, to be exact. Has finished his training two years prematurely. What about him?"

"I could use him for a job," Taliesen said concisely.

After the team meeting Taliesen came up to Sergio and asked if he could speak with him briefly in private. Sergio invited him to his room. Both were team leaders in the service of Master Antonio for the house Arainai. Taliesen was the youngest team leader of the cell, only nineteen, but he looked older with his dark beard stubble and the broad chest. That his opposite was eight years older than him, no one would have guessed.

Sergio chuckled "So if you do not manage the job with your team, I'll take it over, with pleasure."

Taliesin exhaled, blowing the air audibly through his lips. "It is a big mission, we've been busy for a long time. Espionage... I would need someone like Zevran for a week or two. To get close to the target."

"Then take me on board, I'm with you."

Taliesen shook his head slowly, looked thoughtfully at the wooden floor "The payment would not be sufficient for two complete teams ... Twenty percent share," he bargained.

Sergio shook his head, "No share ... twenty Andris for every day. And you'll be sorry if something happens to him. He is my best scout."

Now it was Taliesen, who laughed. "If he is good, nothing will happen to him. If something happens, he was not worth the money." Taliesen got up and moved the chair back to its original position. He remained in the doorway, his hand already on the doorknob. "He shall come to my meeting on Thursday."

Sergio had also stood up, looked in the younger man's face. "This is deemed to be the first evening then. And I want one hundred Andris up front."

Taliesen hesitated, then nodded. "Fair enough. I'll have your money in the morning," and left the room.


	7. Chapter 7: Preparations

**2.2 Preparations**

Zevran got ready for the combat training. He put his trousers and shirt on, laced his boots . Finally he took the gloves in his hands and thoughtfully looked at them for a moment: Unadorned, but well worked, made of soft leather. He ran the thumb down the side seam. Last night he had dreamed of his mother's gloves. Once again... As he stepped out of the room, Goisar passed by.

"See you at the sparring room," Zevran said lowly.

The older boy turned, hit him with a piercing gaze, nodded and went on. Hate was a competitor, they both appreciated.

***

One thing rankled Zevran enormously - he still had no tattoo and was still not a "complete" Crow. Although he had completed the training earlier than most of the other crowlings, he had to wait for his inauguration until he would be sixteen. Why so senseless rules? Hadn't he proven long enough, how good he was?

He stood in front of the mirror and with the tip of his dagger he traced the half-moon-shaped line over his eyebrow, which he soon would have there.

Would he look good with it? Of course he would! He smiled into his own countenance, then he dragged his hand through his blonde hair and set off to appear at Taliesen's meeting in time.

***

Taliesen moved around the elven boy, as if he would examine an animal on the market. Or a slave ... Zevran decided to take it easy, grinned wryly, and used the time to appraise the human on his part. He was tall, imposing, good looking. Although not nearly as good as Sergio.

The young man finally paused in front of Zevran, raised the left arm of the boy and looked at the inside, where the tendons were apparent under the skin. Finally he embraced Zevran's upper arm with his slack hand: "Maker, how thin you are!"

Zevran quickly wrested himself free, grabbed Taliesen's wrist and twisted his arm on his back: "Thin, maybe, but not weak," he laughed.

"I would advise you to let me go, immediately!" Taliesen hissed threateningly.

The elven boy instantly loosened his grip and raised his arms in an apologetic gesture, still chuckling. Taliesen shook his arm and massaged his wrist. "Specializations?"

"Stealth, poison, dagger, sword. And seduction." Zevran emphasized the last word and looked at Taliesen, amused, with half-closed eyes.

The young man smiled and nodded, "What about cracking locks?"

Zevran chuckled: "Never needed. So far, all doors were open to me." He blinked his eyes.

Taliesen sighed: "In other words: No. So you have to come up with an idea. I need the copies of all letters between the mayor and senator Lorenzo. Copies, I say. The originals will stay where they are. No one should notice anything."

Zevran shrugged his shoulders and walked towards the exit. He did not worry about the success of his mission.


	8. Chapter 8: Introductions

_Many thanks to Corkerite for her translation help! And "hello" to my second follower. I hope you enjoy reading my story. :)_

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**2.3 Introductions**

The scullion of the mayor's house had suddenly fallen ill. Just before Funalis, a major holiday in Antiva. It looked like dysentery or cholera. In this state, the boy could certainly not stay in the house! What luck that the recently hired tutor to the daughter knew a replacement and could introduce him the same afternoon: a very attractive elf boy, presented as "Rogelio", with blond hair and unusually fine, clean clothes. He bowed politely, "At your service, Signora," and smiled at the hostess's face.

She was a beautiful woman, in her mid thirties. She had lush, feminine shapes, without appearing thick: large, soft breasts, round hips and thighs. The dress with the plunging neckline and narrow waist emphasized her advantages. The brown hair was done elaborately: a convoluted updo with pearls and ribbons, some hair curled around her temples and ears. She looked at the elf with a long view from the top down and seemed to be pleased. Then she gave the order that the new boy should not only help in the kitchen, but also serve the meals.

"Whatever you want, Signora!" Zevran bowed again with a charming smile. His first job was already done.

The work in the kitchen corresponded entirely to Zevran's imagination - unfortunately. Tormented by a hard-hearted cook and her bumbling son, and hated even by his own kin - because he had taken the elf girl Chiania her beloved job as waitress, so that she now had to spend much more time in the unloved kitchen. Zevran could not complain, for scrubbing pots and haul buckets was as strenuous as tedious work.

The cooking itself he found much more interesting: how - by the skillful hands of the master kitchen - vegetables, meat and spices were transformed to fragrant delicacies. He thought about taking notes about some individual techniques or copying recipes out of the thick cookbook, which lay on a shelf beside the stove, whenever he would find the time and opportunity.

When he served the dinner, Zevran got to know the rest of the family. The mayor, Signore di Manico, was a mountain of a man. About fifty, with sparse, greasy hair, a broad face, bright, bushy eyebrows and a bulbous, short nose. Above the narrow neck, the meat of the double chin swelled out, the buttons of dark brown jackets stretched menacingly over the enormous girth. But the red face was - in spite of all gravitas - good-natured, the mouth knew how to smile.

The daughter of the family, the seventeen-years-old Signorina Martha unfortunately did not resemble her beautiful mother, she was the spitting image of the father. A short upturned nose, small, restless, bright blue eyes; the white blond eyebrows barely visible in the plump, rosy-bright face. The hair of the same pale color lay flat against the head and was parted in the middle. Two tightly braided plaits were coiled like snails and attached to the back of the head, what gave a clear view on the rich, red neck. The belly was thicker than the breasts, it formed two bulged already in standing . The dress was stretched close over the sweeping backside, she went plumply, her thighs audible rubed each other with every step.

After the sumptuous meal a sweet dessert was served. Afterwards, the men gathered in the smoking room while the women disappeared either in the lounge or in their own rooms. Guests were almost always present. So this time - the director of the opera house, signore Valandrez and his wife. They were not within Zevran's remit, but he listened attentively to the talks, and later, when he was sent to the cellar to fetch some wine, he took some notes about the conversation.

Zevran attracted attention with his appearance and his good manners. The daughter, Martha, gave him shy glances, again and again. He knew to answer with an open, friendly smile and a slight bow. Signora di Manico regarded him with sympathy and satisfaction.

After dinner, at the lounge Signora Valandrez claped her hands ecstatically: "By all means, you have must tell me, where you have this elven boy, my dear. He's so charming." She turned to the hostess.

The addressed smiled enthusiastically, "Yes, isn't he? Actually he is just a replacement for our poor Paolo. But I would like to keep him for ever." She looked at him with dreamy eyes, as if he were one of her small porcelain figures, whose extensive collection filled three vitrines in the salon.

Zevran returned the compliment with his friendly smile, bowed deeply, "May I proffer the ladies a glass of dessert wine?"

"Oh, and what delightful manners!" Signora Valandrez sighed.

* * *

_***Funalis** - also called "All Soul's Day". A holiday in all of Thedas once dedicated to Dumat, the Old God of Silence. However, since Dumat's rise during the First Blight, Thedosians turn a blind eye to any old ties between the day and the dragon. The holiday is now known across Thedas as All Soul's Day and spent in somber remembrance of the dead. In some northern lands, the people dress as spirits and walk the streets in parade after midnight. The Chantry uses the holiday to remember the death of Andraste, with public fires that mark her immolation and plays that depict her death. It is celebrated at the beginning of Matrinalis._  
_(source: wiki/Calendar)_


	9. Chapter 9: Open Doors

_Translation help for this chapter came from jenovan and Shadow of Light. Thank you so much! :)_

* * *

**2.4 Open Doors**

He entered her room, as he had been ordered. Signora di Manico was sitting in an armchair next to her four-poster bed, a book in her lap, smiled at him.

"There you are, boy. Say, can you read?"

Zevran smiled "But of course I can read, Signora, I can do many things."

"Oh," she sounded surprised, "How unusual for a kitchen boy. ... As well as your excellent manners."

Zevran sighed exaggeratedly "Well, to be honest, I was not always a scullion. I am an orphan, unfortunately. My parents died two years ago, a tragic accident. Before that I studied in one of the best schools of the city, the Santa Maria."

Signora di Manico nodded approvingly. She didn't seem to be surprised about how an elven child could attend such a good school. "And where do you live now?"

Zevran sighed again, his face assumed an expression of deep sadness. "In the orphanage, Signora. I have no other relatives in the city. And I can't attend a school anymore. But what shall I do? I'm glad to have found work in such a good house. Here I get something to eat every day, before I was so often hungry. "

The Signora did not take her glance from his face for a moment. What a pretty, angelic face with this honey-colored eyes and blond hair. Her eyes were moist with tears. "An orphan boy, oh, come closer."

When he stood in front of her, she caressed his left shoulder and arm. Then she handed him the book. "I want you to read to me. To date, my chamber maid Sabine had done this, but her voice is so boring."

She stood up and offered him with a flowing movement the chair. "Just start reading, I call Sabine that she helps me changing my clothes."

Sabine, a shy, skinny girl with pale skin and ash-gray ponytail entered the room and curtsied, "Very well, madame," she had an Orlesian accent.

Sabine set a folding screen and the women began with the complicated changing procedure. Zevran nestled in the armchair and began to read. At his special pleasure they were frivolous stories, the Signora preferred for bedtime reading. He was reading slowly, clearly, his voice purred through the lines. In between, he allowed himself time and again little pauses to take a look through the translucent fabric walls of the screen and delighted in the seductive shadows behind them.

Finally, the Signora finished and stepped out from behind the folding screen. She wore a long, flowing white nightgown, which also had a deep neckline. The brown curls, now openly worn, poured over shoulders, back and the lush bosom. What a sight! Zevran could not take his eyes off her: "Signora, you are beautiful!"

Signora di Manico blushed slightly and smiled. She turned to her maid: "Sabine, you can go now." The girl put away the screen and left her mistress's room with her clothes on the arms.

The Signora made herself comfortable in her bed, her hair flowed over the silk pillows, her kindly gaze rested on Zevran "Read the story to the end, please. Then you get to go."

So Zevran continued reading the story of the knight and the flower girl, and just when it should come to the crucial scene in the garden grotto, Signora di Manico had fallen asleep. Zevran himself was very tired. He had been on his feet since five o'clock in the morning and now it was about midnight. The next day he would again have to get up very early, if his camouflage as a scullion should remain credible. But before he could go to bed, he had to fulfill one last task.

He laid the book aside, the accompanying leather ribbon he had put between the last pages he read. Then he got up, crept to the bedside table of the Signora. For a moment he took the time to enjoy her perfume, admiring the sight of her sleeping face on the pillow. He then grasped with deft fingers the necklace with her key and pressed it on both sides firmly in a solid form of pastry, which he had pinched in the kitchen. He checked in the twilight of the sole candle, whether residues were left on the key, then he put the necklace back, trying to ensure that it lay there as before. He put the form carefully in a jacket pocket and left the room silently.


	10. Chapter 10: Hunger

_Many thanks to TanithAeyrs for her help with the translation. And: Yay! I've got the first review for my English story. Thank you very much. I appreciate your kind words. :) I will upload some more chapters today._

* * *

**2.5 Hunger**

Once again Zevran must avail himself of his herb collection to endure the coming days. He decided for Ephidra, because it not only helped against fatigue, but also against hunger. Hunger - that made him mad. He wished so much to gain some weight, instead he became even thinner. He got his meals regularly, but they were scanty, such as the meals for a kitchen boy usually looked like. His work required a lot more energy than the few pieces of bread and a few stolen bites in between could give him.

While serving lunch, he could not prevent a stomach growl, and he could only hope that nobody of the gentry has noticed it. The daughter, Signorina Martha, ordered a second helping. This was not unusual and Zevran hastened to comply with her wish. When he served the meal with a bow, the daughter raised her head and spoke to her parents:

"Father, Mother, I would like to finish the meal in my room. If you allow ..."

The father looked surprised, the mother quizzical. When she saw the eyes of her daughter, she thought she understood, smiled at her husband and laid a hand on his forearm.

"Beloved husband, what does it matter. Let us meet her modest desire, she is such a sweet girl."

The father grumbled briefly, but then he nodded. The daughter turned to Zevran: "Bring me the food to my room, please."

Zevran bowed "As you wish, Signorina" and followed the girl down the hall.

The girl closed the door behind her and pointed to the table in the left corner. It was a small round table of dark wood with four elegant chairs, in the middle stood a vase of magnolias. He put the plate on the table, stepped back and bowed in her direction. But she shook her head, her rosy face became totally red:

"No," she said softly, "this is for you. You're hungry, right?"

Zevran looked at her incredulously "For me?"

She nodded.

He smiled kindly at her, bowed, "Oh, thank you." Then he ate the sumptuous meal, trying not to swallow too much. It tasted so good.

The girl slowly came closer, until she stood behind him. Shyly, she stretched out her right hand and touched his hair. Zevran turned and looked into an embarrassed, bright red face. He smiled:

"This was pleasant, Signorina."

"It ... did not disturb you?"

Zevran chuckled softly, "But why should it bother me if such a charming girl touches my hair?"

She looked to the ground. Her embarrassment had something touching. Zevran stood up and took the right hand of the girl in his left, and started to stroke her palm gently with his thumb. The girl raised her small, pale blue eyes and looked in disbelief Zevran's smiling face.

"I'm not charming." She whispered.

"Who says that?" Zevran replied, smiling, just as quietly. He did not release the girl's hand, he put his other hand under her double chin and stroked with his thumb over her hot, red cheek. Then he sighed:

"I have to back into the kitchen. The cook will beat me unless I'm there soon."

The girl broke away from his touch, went with perky steps to her bed, and pealed the bell that hung there at the wall. Sabine appeared in the doorway and curtsied "Mademoiselle?"

"Sabine, please give notice in the kitchen, that I need the scullion for my own this afternoon."

"Very well, Mademoiselle." Sabine curtsied again and disappeared. Martha turned to Zevran and smiled at him, "You have not finished eating yet."


	11. Chapter 11: Sleepless

_Second review! You guys make me so happy. :) Zevran telling these stories over the campfire is an intriguing mental image. :D (No translation help this time)_

* * *

**2.6 Sleepless**

Zevran had been sent to the market to get some vegetables. One of the few opportunities for him to leave the house in daylight, and he enjoyed it. The market bustle was colorful, vivid and noisy. After he had completed his purchases, he decided to stroll a bit, attracted by a familiar, beloved scent: fresh leather. But when he approached the stands of the tanners, he was distracted by two other smells: Human sweat and dog...

Behind the booths of the leatherworkers, there were those of the slave traders. One of the guards was a Qunari in cheap, battered iron armor with a large two-handed sword. He gave the elven boy, who went through the ranks, a skeptical frown. Three chained fighting dogs sat next to him. Zevran went on, attracted by a face...

The offer of the slave traders consisted of about twenty people; many were elves, half of them children. In remembrance of his own fate Zevran must swallow. The face that attracted him was that of an elven lad and he was about the same age as Zevran. His skin was darker than the other boy's, he had eyes brown, and his long, black hair he wore in two braids. On his forehead and nose there was a treelike tattoo: A Dalish elf!

They stood face-to-face for a while, twenty yards away. Their eyes met each other, knowing, understanding. Zevran's lips parted in a silent vow: I'll pick you out of here. I promise.

Then he had to hurry to return the purchases, before the cook would become wary.

* * *

The same night Zevran went back towards the market. It was time for his next meeting with Taliesen. As the house of their cell was too far away, they met regularly in a basement near the market place, about halfway between the house of the mayor and that of senator Lorenzo. There were a few minutes left until the appointed time.

Zevran knew the sleeping accommodation of the slave traders. It was in a side street near the market. The shabby entrance, a low wooden door, was guarded by that very Qunari, whom he had seen in the morning and another man in chain armor with shield and battle ax. They were too hard to match for him alone, and combat sounds probably would have called more guards out of the house.

But there was another way; along the canal and through the backyards. And at that back door - as Zevran found out - only the dogs watched. Zevran stood at the other end of the elongated courtyard, far enough away that the dogs did not bark. Skillfully, he threw a bundle to them; the dogs instantly began to sniff at it. Then he withdrew.

* * *

Taliesen was late. Some wounds on his head and shoulders were freshly tended and he looked exhausted. The basement room was sparsely furnished: a simple bed, two chairs, and a chest of drawers. All likely to disappear quickly if needed.

After Zevran had finished his report, Taliesen opened a box and handed Zevran a shiny object, "Here, the duplicate key. Let's hope it fits." Zevran put it in his pocket.

Taliesen looked inquiringly at the young elf. The pale face, the dark rings under his eyes "You look tired."

Zevran started laughing, "What should I do? The ladies don't let me rest..."

The older Crow chuckled amused. Then he got up, went over to Zevran, lifted his chin with one hand and looked him strictly in the eyes: "What do you take?"

Zevran shrugged his shoulders: "Ephidra ... but there is next to nothing left."

Taliesen hesitated for a moment. Then he went to the dresser, opened a drawer and handed Zevran a small package: "This is harder than Ephidra, be careful with it. If everything goes well, you should have finished your task in two or three days. Then you can relax."

He opened the door, "If there is nothing else ... I would also like to sleep now."

Zevran rose elegantly, pocketed the package. While going out he touched Taliesen's left hand and looked him boldly in the eye. "All alone?"

Taliesen grinned and raised his right hand as if he wanted to beat Zevran: "Off with you!" he laughed.

* * *

The dogs slept deeply, and all others in the narrow, stinking accommodation as well. It was not more than a shed - dirty floor, a little straw. And apparently everybody defecated wherever they stood. Zevran continued his steps with extreme caution.

Soon he found the Dalish boy. He laid his hand over the boy's mouth when he woke him and gave him a sign, the other understood without a word. Zevran severed the bonds with his dagger and laughed silently to himself: These slaves were tied with simple knitting and not able to free themselves? That would not happen to him. At least not anymore.

Zevran led the boy through the backyards to the canal. When they had moved far enough, he stopped.

The Dalish looked at him. "Thank you. I do not know why you helped me, but thank you. My name is Sûl, which means wind." The boy had a pleasantly soft voice. He spoke with a little bit of an accent but didn't have any trouble to find his words.

Zevran appeared thoughtful. "I am Zevran. And I have no idea what this name means ... My mother was also a Dalish. At least they told me so."

Sûl nodded: "I cannot give you anything for my release."

"Perhaps ...," Zevran said "Can you .. tell me where your clan lives?"

Sûl looked at him long and searchingly. Then he whispered: "Three days journey upriver is a ford. You have to cross it. From there, a half-day north-west. But we will only stay a few weeks more. When the rainy season begins, we move towards north."

Zevran thanked him. Each of the two boys went their ways.

Even something better than Ephidra could not replace real sleep. Permanently just three or four hours per night were not enough. Zevran started to feel like he was constantly running through a dense fog. He tried to concentrate. The idea that it would only be a few more days and that it depended on his own speed, helped him. This spy job was stressful. To kill them would have been so much easier.

It happened that Signorina Martha invited him to her room after lunch, gave him something to eat and let him spend the afternoon in her bed. Not that he really could sleep, but only to lie and rest with closed eyes for an hour was worth a lot. For that he gladly accepted her loud snoring. After all, it served at night as a guarantee she was asleep, so he could sneak into the study.

The letters he had to admit were in a casket. Fortunately, the lock was primitive, so that he could open it easily with the help of a bent wire. And close it again after the completion of work. The first night he managed ten letters, the stack looked huge. But after three more nights he had eventually finished his task.


	12. Chapter 12: Consequences

_This is the last part of "Contract With Consequences". Translation help came from the gorgeous Corkerite again. Thank you, dear! :)_

_

**2.7 Consequences**

Taliesen nodded, "Good job, Zevran. Here is your reward."

Zevran accepted the purse, it was heavy. He checked the content - two hundred Andris! This was an unusual high amount for a henchman. Happily he bounced the bag a few times in his hand "Thanks!"

Taliesen looked as if he wanted to say something. But he just cleared his throat and pointed to the door, "You can go, Zevran ..."

Zevran took his bag, jumped up and did as he was commanded.

Exhausted, but in a good mood, he went to the room of his teamleader. He conceived Sergio's pleased and proud face when he would tell of his success. To his surprise, it was not Sergio, who opened the door, but Valentin, one of his snipers. Zevran looked at him quizzically, "Where is Sergio? Underway?"

Valentin looked confused, "Then you don't know it? No, you were away all the time, probably you can't know it yet..."

He pointed to a chair and seated himself on another one. Zevran sat down slowly, a sudden suspicion turned his stomach. Valentin took a deep breath and cleared his throat before he looked into Zevran's eyes:

"A mission has gone awry. Sergio is dead, and three of his men. The rest of us could escape."

"When ..." Zevran asked flatly. His wide-open eyes stared in disbelief in the face of the tall half-elf.

Valentin sighed "Four days ago. We're just thinking about if we rearrange the team or join another. Taliesen is interested, they say ..."

"How ..." Zevran's tone remained unchanged.

Valentine shrugged his shoulders. "I do not know the exact circumstances. Goisar was nearest to it. He was our scout that night."

Zevran looked down, nodded silently. Tears were not appropriate. Such was the life of a Crow. Either you complete your mission, or you die. It could happen to any of them, every day.

He left the room in silence and went into his own. He wanted to throw away the purse. Now he understood why it was so much - a big part of this money was designated for Sergio. Taliesen had known it. Who knows how long. And he had said nothing.

Zevran lay on his bed without undressing, looked out the window into the night. Grief, hate and anger formed a tough, black lump in his stomach. Although he could not know about the course of the evening, he was sure that Goisar was responsible for Sergio's death. And worse - he himself should have been with Sergio, he was the scout ...

What should happen now? He was not sixteen yet. He was not tattooed, could not accept missions on his own. He could not even work as a trainer, although he - unofficially - often coached younger Crows in the sparring room. And he had no desire to join another team. Taliesen's even less than any other.

For a while Zevran lay there, exhausted, drained, stunned. He could not sleep, but visions haunted through his mind: his early childhood in the brothel, the imagination of his mother, her gloves, the Dalish-boy on the slave market.

The tower clock struck three, when Zevran softly closed his door. He wore his leather armor and had a small bundle on his back, in one hand he carried a vial. Another door opened silently, he crept to the bed, in which a dark-haired Elf was lying, fast asleep. Zevran opened the vial and let a few drops fall on his lips. The elf was stirring in his sleep, licked off the drops.

Suddenly his black eyes opened. In mortal fear they fixed Zevran's light brown. Goisar tried to scream, but the vocal cords were already paralyzed. He tried to move, but the movements were uncontrolled, the muscle paralysis had already begun. Breathing and heart would soon follow. Zevran closed vial in front of Goisars eyes and put it in his pocket. The expression on his face was icy satisfaction. He whispered very quietly but clearly: "This is for Sergio. And for the gloves. Addio, compagno mio*!"

Zevran silently left the house and followed the dark alleys toward the river bank.

= End =

_  
_*Addio, compagno mio - Farewell my comrade!_


	13. Chapter 13: Restless Escape

_This is the start of Zevran's Dalish-story. A lot of translation (and other) help came from Shadow of Light. Thank you so much, my dear! :)_

**Part 3: A Dalish Intermezzo**

**3.1 Restless Escape**

His way out of the city went past the house of the Manicos. And as he was still in possession of the key, he stole a loaf of bread and a ham out of the pantry. During his time as a kitchen boy in the house that would have been unthinkable. The cook watched with an eagle eye over her stocks. More than a few stolen bites here and there would have been too obvious. Now she might suspect someone else. The imagination of her angry face when she would realize the loss the next day gave Zevran a grin of spitefulness. He slept in an abandoned barn on the outskirts, which he knew from his scouting tours - for only a few restless hours. Too great was the fear that the Crows would have him already on the trail.

The next morning he opened his bundle, he drew out a simple linen trousers, a shabby coat and a cap with which he was able to cover hair and ears. His armor and one of the two daggers, which he wore as the only weapons with him, he stowed away in the bundle. The other knife was in his boot. He hoped he would not get any attention in this disguise. He could be any street boy. The gate guard took no notice of him when he left the city.

What Sûl had suppressed: The way "upstream" led steadily uphill too. Antiva City was situated in the lowland by the sea of Rialto Bay. But only a few miles further west the Highlands began which stretched north to the Drylands and west to the foothills of the Hundred Pillars. The climate was different than he knew it from the city: Now, in the month of the Kingsway *, the days were still very hot, but at night it was much cooler.

Zevran was progressing well on his way. His food stocks would last for three days. To bread and ham he added wild berries, which he found on the roadside. The river, whose course he followed upstream gave him water. The only problem was still the sleep: not used to the wilderness and in fear of an attack of a wild animal, he spent the first night in a tree cavity, which - as he had to admit - was inhabited by many ants. The second night he climbed on a tree and fell down asleep.

On the evening of the third day he reached the ford. The water was very flat here in late summer. Zevran took off his good boots, tied them together with his bundle on a stick which he wore over his shoulders as he ran barefoot through the ford. The stones were smooth and in the middle of the river the current was strong, so he was more than once in danger to lose his footing. He had never learned to swim, so he was lucky when he reached the other side with wet clothes, but unscathed.

The night drew on. Zevran changed out of his wet clothes and put on his armor and boots again. He sat on an overturned tree on the riverbank and watched how the stars reflected in the water. It was a bright, clear full moon night. The road was clearly visible. He was tired, but given the previous night experiences, he decided to go on as long as he could ...

* * *

Zevran yawned again and again, he could hardly keep his eyes open. Northwest he ran. For hours already, by always the same area - high plain, forest, interspersed with occasional pieces of open steppe. Almost every tree he checked, looking for the weather side. He also knew a star in the firmament, which was always in the north, while all other luminaries moved around it. He had grown up in the city. But little Crows had to learn to find their way at night in an unfamiliar area. And not everywhere in the city the high tower of the royal palace was to be seen, which served whenever possible as a landmark. So - northwest it was. But how accurate is this information? Perhaps he had already missed the Dalish camp? Zevran sighed, stopped and leaned against a tree. He was dead tired, the legs would not carry him any more, he could not keep his eyes open. Just as he was, the elf slumped into himself and was instantly asleep.

He was awakened by a howling, a very close howling... He opened his eyes and saw a dog-like creature just in front of him - its hide was light brown as the grass of the plateau with a dark pattern on its back like the shades of shrubs and trees; it had a long, pointed snout and triangular ears. The creature had stopped howling and growled at him. The sharp fangs flashed. From the shadows of the trees one more of these creatures came out.

Zevran was instantly wide awake and on his feet, the daggers in his hands. Instantly all his nerves switched over to "fight" - a situation well known to him. He looked the animal just in the eyes and waited. It did not move. Instead, the second beast stalked at him from the side. the young Crow turned around quickly. Every creature has a throat, he thought and struck his right dagger into the neck of the animal. The creature howled loudly, then fell to the ground and died. Now the other animal moved towards him. Zevran took his second dagger from the left hand to the right. He waited for the pounce, crouched and met the heart with the dagger. The weight of the dying animal dragged the elf to the ground. Zevran could feel how its body shuddered, still warm. Blood was dripping on his head and hair. It did not smell so much like "dog", he realized. More like wood and rotted soil. The elf pushed the corpse to the side and drew his dagger from its chest. Then he saw two more of these creatures sneaking up and took his defensive position with his back to the tree again.

* * *

Vhenan sat on a high position in the crown of a cork oak. The clan had built the small platform several years ago. Every summer it was used by the hunters to guard the southern exit of the camp. It was a quiet position. It was generally a quiet camp. The nearest human settlement was more than a day's journey away on the south bank of the river, and contacts were rare - both sides got out of their ways. It was also rare that animals approached the camp, they avoided the elves and their fire. Only sometimes a pack red-wolves ventured an attack against the halla.

It seemed to be another quiet night. The eastern horizon was already dyed red - the sun would soon rise. Vhenan moved around until comfortable on the seat, leaning against a strong branch with legs stretched out, and ate a banana until, not far away, a roar was heard. With a sigh, the elf put the banana to one side and took bow to hand. Just when it had looked like the shift was almost over...

* * *

Zevran tried, without taking his eyes off the two "dogs" to draw with his left hand his second dagger out of the neck of the dead animal. He did not succeed. And the two were looming. the young elf looked around and grabbed a branch that was lying on the ground. Why not. Long enough he had to fight with wooden dummies, he thought grinning. The right "dog" snarled and leaped then, mouth wide open. Zevran held the branch in both hands, keeping them wide apart, and shoved the wood between the "dog's" jaws. The disoriented animal shook its head, but could not get rid of the stick. The other beast jumped at the boy from the side and knocked him down - its teeth dangerously close to his throat.

Suddenly an arrow buzzed through the air, and the beast it struck howled in pain. It turned from Zevran. The young Crow used this moment to sink the dagger deep in the side of the neck of the animal. It roared only once more, then it slumped to the ground. Another arrow whirred and the last of the dog-creatures, which had still fought with the stick in his mouth, fell down dead.

Zevran stood up, he was out of breath. With his forearm he wiped sweat and blood from his face. At his neck and arms he had several small scratches and bites. He cleaned his dagger, as best he could, as he rammed it into the mossy ground. Then he went to the first animal he killed, was kneeling on its body and pulled with a strong movement the second dagger from its neck. At the same time he kept looking curiously in the direction from which the arrows had flown. A slender figure had appeared out from the trees, a drawn bow in the hands they came slowly towards him. A Dalish! Zevran stuck his daggers in the sheaths and walked towards the stranger with open hands.

Only now he noted that the Dalish was a woman. A very young woman with a boyish figure, short black hair. She wore a light green leather armor that only covered her breasts and hips, belly and arms were bare. Her skin was brown, slightly darker than Zevran's own. Her face was not pretty, rather tart with stern features and strong, dark eyebrows. The slanted green eyes looked exotic. She had a narrow, slightly curved nose and a thin, small mouth.

Zevran smiled: "I am a lucky man. My life is saved and even by a beautiful woman!" He bowed, "My name is Zevran."

"Stay where you are, stranger!" the Dalish shouted sharply.

Zevran laughed softly, but stood still. "Oh, not only beautiful, but also dangerous and strong. Exciting!"

The Dalish remained unimpressed, "What are you doing here, flatear?"

Zevran raised his arms with a smile: "But why so hostile, my good woman? I am looking for a friend, a Dalish, whom I've met in the city. Sûl is his name."

The huntress looked skeptical, but let fall her bow. "Sûl, you say?" She seemed to think for a moment. Finally she said, "You can come with me, but give me the daggers."

Zevran hesitated, laughed softly, "But... what should I do if such a ..." He pointed to the animal corpses "beast attacks me again? What kind of 'dogs' were these actually?"

The hunter's mouth twisted mockingly, she drew the bow again, "Put the daggers on the floor or my arrows pierce your heart."

Zevran doubted it. He would still have seen some ways to overpower his attacker. However, none of them fit into his plan and so he decided to take the risk. "Well then," he sighed and put his daggers on the ground.

"Back!" the elven woman said "Back to the tree and stop there!"

Zevran did as commanded, but kept smiling all the time. The Dalish picked up his dagger and put it on. Then she looked at the young elf, this pretty, cheeky flat-ear with the bloody hair. "These were red-wolves. The clever hunters of the plateau. And you were lucky that it was only a small pack. Come on. I'll take you to our keeper." She showed him their way with a gesture.

_  
_* Month of Kingsway - the ninth month in the Thedas-calendar_


	14. Chapter 14: Andaran atish'an, da'len!

**3.2 Andaran atish'an, da'len!***

When Vhenan and Zevran arrived in the camp, everyone was already awake and busy. One elf was working on a new bow, another scraped the remains of meat off a stretched animal skin, others prepared breakfast for their families. From the watering place children's noise sounded over.

Keeper Einiora sat in front of her Aravel and was engrossed in a silent prayer, when Vhenan reached her. Einiora was an aged woman. The white hair was tightly plaited into a single braid that fell down long at her back. Her craggy face, covered with numerous tattoos, looked like the bark of an ancient tree. She wore a simple robe made of thin green and yellow-colored leather with black feathers on the shoulders.

Behind Vhenan and Zevran a cluster of curious elves had formed - many had stopped their work or play, and had followed them. Vhenan waited respectfully until the Keeper had finished her prayer, opened her eyes and rose. "Aneth ara, Vhenan, whom do you bring me here?"

"Aneth ara, Hahren Einiora!" Vhenan bowed slightly "I found this flat-ear in the forest, a few arrow shots away from the camp. A pack of red-wolves had attacked him. He said he would know Sûl."

"Ma serannas, Vhenan." The old Keeper said. Then she walked a few steps toward Zevran, leaned herself on her staff and looked at the elf skeptically, but not unkindly, "What is your name, da'len and wherefrom do you know our son Sûl?"

"Zevran!" a young voice cried from the cluster of Dalish-elves "Lethallin!" Sûl pushed through the crowd, beamed happily at Zevran. "You have come, indeed."

The Keeper looked sternly at the elf boy, who had allegedly intervened to the conversation in disrespect. But then she let the boys tell their story. Zevran - when he was asked about his family - claimed that he was an orphan and a messenger boy. He did not mention the Crows with any word.

"My mother was a Dalish" Zevran finally said, "She left her tribe many years ago, when she had fallen in love to a city elf who was a lumberjack. But I have never met my parents. My mother died at my birth, my father even before." Also about the brothel, he said nothing. He looked inquiringly at the Keeper: "Did you know my mother?"

The Keeper pondered, shook her head. Then she said in a solemn tone, "Andaran atish'an, da'len! Enter this place in peace. But you are wounded. Come to my tent, I'll take a look at that."

While she washed the bite marks on Zevrans neck and arms and treated them with poultices, Einiora told: "Your mother was not of our clan. But it is rare that a Dalish leaves her people. In our last meeting, which took place nine years ago, her story had been told. She should have been a beautiful woman. If I remember correctly, her clan tramps through the Arlathan forest. This is very far away, and I can not tell you an exact location."

"Thank you." Zevran said. He looked sad and thoughtful.

* * *

In front of the Keeper's tent Sûl waited with a woman and a man of middle age. The woman, whose austere features appeared familiar to Zevran, spoke to him kindly. "My name is Morneryn, I am Sûl's mother. This is Tathar, my husband, we would like to invite you to live in our aravel as long as you linger with our clan. The savior of our son, we warmly welcome. "

Zevran smiled and bowed "I can see whom Sûl owes his good looks. I gladly accept your offer. To be honest - I am very tired."

The aravels were the wagons, in which the Dalish traveled around the country. They were pulled by halla, white stags which the Dalish revered as their noble companions. The humans refered to the stately carriages as "landships". Had a clan reached its camp, tents were pitched on the aravels and around them.

The aravel of Sûl's family included a living tent and a sleeping tent. Since the sleeping tent would have been too narrow to offer enough place for yet another person, the parents moved with their sleeping places into the living tent. For Zevran a sleeping place was set next to those of Sûl and Vhenan, who was his sister.

Zevran lay down on his sleeping place and fell asleep immediately. In the evening he woke up briefly, attended the family during the dinner, then he lay down again to sleep for almost another twelve hours until the next morning. The Dalish began to wonder if that were common for a flat-ear, or whether his injuries were heavier than they looked. But after two days Zevran's sleep rhythm normalized.

He looked around the camp, Sûl and whose parents showed and explained him a lot about their life. He was interested in the crafts, especially in the tanning of leather and in herbalism. Zevran learned how the Dalish lead their bows. They were worked differently than the bows which Zevran knew from the Crows: They were longer, lighter and they had no visor, one aimed over the arrow tip. The points of their arrows were often soaked in poison. Zevran learned new recipes, which he eagerly took up in his repertoire.

* * *

"You lie!" Vhenans voice was stern, her sound suspicious.

Zevran sat in front of the family's aravel and was just busy to crumble some herbs in a small bowl. Now he looked up quizzically.

Vhenan had propped a hand in her side. "I do not think you're a delivery boy. I have seen how you fight. Where did you learn that?"

Zevran put the bowl with the herbs aside and stood up. He took a relaxed attitude, smiled: "A city boy must be able to defend himself. The road is the best teacher."

"And the weapons? And the leather armor?" asked Vhenan

Zevran chuckled and winked: "Well, I have also learned to steal."

"May the others believe your lies, I certainly do not!" Vhenan ended the conversation and went away with forceful steps.

Zevran watched behind her with a dreamy look, smiled, shook his head and sighed: "What a delightful person!"

"Don't blame her." Sûl had approached his friend and put a hand on his arm. "It's not an easy time for her. Recently, she lost her husband - he died in the hunt." Sûl took a pause in speech, looked after his sister, as she disappeared between the tents. "They lived with a neighboring clan, but after his death she returned to us." Sûl looked at Zevran: "She loved him very much, you should know. To show her mourning, she cut her hair. "

"Well." Zevran said, still smiling and looking in the direction where Vhenan had disappeared: "I would comfort her..."

* * *

_*Elvish terms used in this chapter (source: .com)_

_Andaran atish'an: Enter this place in peace. A formal elven greeting._  
_Aneth ara: A sociable or friendly greeting, used among the Dalish._  
_Da'len: Child_  
_Hahren: Elder. Used as a term of respect by the Dalish. _  
_Lethallin: Friend (male)_  
_Ma serannas: thank you_


	15. Chapter 15: Learning to Swim

Many thanks Shadow of Light for beta-reading and A LOT OF help!

* * *

**3.3 Learning to Swim**

"Look, that's what I wanted to show you."

The forest had opened and between the trees the blue water of a clear lake glistened. The warm late summer sun was dancing in the bright spots on the small waves.

Sûl undressed and jumped into the water, "Come on in, it's warm." With a few quick strokes he reached the middle of the small lake.

Zevran grinned, took off his clothes and went into the water. In fact, it was very warm, the fine sand under his feet was pleasantly soft. He sat down in the shallow water, stretched out comfortably and purred appreciatively with closed eyes. The sun caressed his face. He had lived with the Dalish clan for just one week, but it felt like he had known Sûl for ages. They spent a lot of time together; a familiarity had quickly developed between them that the young assassin had never experienced before. And sometimes it seemed to Zevran as if there was even more...

Sûl swam to him, "Why don't you come to the middle, there it's even better."

Zevran opened his eyes and shrugged his shoulders, smiling, "I cannot swim."

Sûl burst into laughter, "You cannot swim? Every little child of the Dalish can do that. Come, I teach you."

He led Zevran into deeper water, so that it reached to the belly button and told him to lie down flat on his stomach. He supported him with his forearms. "Just keep your head above the water, then hold your arms this way and your legs ..."

Zevran was pleased. He liked it very much to be touched by the handsome elf boy. But he had the feeling that he was not the only one who took pleasure in it.

"Oh, what's that?" Zevran held on Sûl's shoulders and stood up slowly. He smiled at his friend's face and groped for his hand, began to stroke it. Sûl did not recoil. He looked at Zevran. Then he moved his free hand and reached for Zevran's, so that the boys stood opposite each other, hand in hand, very close.

Sûl moved closer to Zevran's face, closed his eyes and gently, very lightly his lips touched Zevran's. Then he pulled his face back and gave an inquiring look. Zevran smiled. He let go of Sûl's left hand to gently stroke up his arm to the shoulder with the back of his fingers, slid his arm around the Dalish elf's neck, pulled him closer and kissed him.

"I like this swimming lesson very much," he breathed.

* * *

The two boys sat side by side on a small rise at the lakeside. They had dressed, their hair was still wet. The mild evening sun dipped their faces in a warm red.

"How did you come to the slave market?" Zevran asked his companion.

Sûl looked down. "I'm expected to get married, or to bond, as we Dalish call it."

"Married?" Zevran echoed. He looked puzzled. "How old are you?"

"I'm sixteen," Sûl said. "But that's the convention. When a youth kills their first animal, whether they are sixteen or older, they are regarded as adults." He put his head on one side to wrung water drops out of his long black hair. "If one feels ready, one performs a ritual and gets the Vallaslin." He pointed to the sign on his forehead "This is our blood writing. And then it is expected that a man is looking for a woman. Or is chosen by one."

Zevran's expression alternated between curiosity, astonishment and concern: Would one expect the same from him, since he now lived with the Dalish? "But can't you say that you want to wait until you're twenty or thirty?" he asked finally.

Sûl looked down at his own hands which lay in his lap: "It is not that. That would not be a problem. One can wait as long as one want. Our life is long. Usually longer than that of a city elf." He looked briefly at his friend, then down on his hands again. "So, it's not that I would feel too young for a marriage. And... There were also some girls who were interested in me. But ..." Sûl looked at Zevran, uncertain, hesitant "I did not like them..."

Zevran chuckled softly, "Oh, picky. I should probably count this as a compliment." He winked at his companion "So... you wanted to go elsewhere to look for a bride?"

The Dalish elf shook his head slowly: "No ... I think ..." He swallowed. His voice became a toneless whisper: "I think I don't like women. Not at all. Only men." He stood up, took a stone and threw it across the lake. It hopped over the water, leaving behind a trail of self-replicating rings.

"Well," Zevran said and shrugged his shoulders, "What of it! Then you choose a man instead."

Sûl looked at his friend in confusion. He shook his head. "No, it's impossible. Such a thing does not exist. Not with us." He walked to the edge of the hill. The arms he had folded over the chest. The sun disappeared behind the trees on the other shore. The first stars twinkled and the nocturnal noises began.

Zevran stood up too, ran his hands through his wet hair and went over to his friend to be able to look him in the eye. "So ... you were running away?"

Sûl nodded.

"But now you're back. What are you going to do?"

The elf shrugged his shoulders. "I guess, I'll have to get married... at some time or another. Maybe... I can learn to love a woman?" He looked inquiringly at his companion's eyes: "You like both ... don't you? I've seen how you look at my sister ..."

Zevran laughed, "Oh yes, I'm quite open in these things. But I've always been like that. Whether one can learn it?" He shrugged his shoulders. "I do not know. I think I was something special even in the ... in my circle of friends."

Sûl looked at him long, "You are something special. That's right."


	16. Chapter 16: Vir Tanadahl

_Many thanks to Corkerite for her translation help with this chapter. :)_

* * *

**3.4 Vir Tanadahl ***

Zevran yawned widely. Not from lack of sleep. Sleep, he got enough, more than enough. Once it got dark, the most Dalish adjourned to their Aravels. And the village awoke not before dawn. That were - as the equinox dated back now for almost a week ago - more than twelve hours he could have slept each night if he wanted. Unless he was assigned to guard duty.

The village was guarded around the clock, in each two shifts by day and by night and in all directions. Every woman, every man over the age of sixteen could undertake a sentry. Since Zevran had already killed animals, he was reckoned as sixteen. He had never been asked. And he was all right with being treated as "adult". However, such a guarding shift was awfully boring. These were six hours meanwhile usually nothing happened. But he had to stay at his post. Enough time to ponder - and to yawn ...

The life as a Crow had been a dance on the knife edge - dangerous and exciting. The training was hard and ruthless. People lived in constant danger of death. After the only one of the Crows who had ever shown him something like humanity, had died, he just wanted to get away. Away from all the cruelty and coldness. Sûl, the Dalish-boy, the stranger in the city, the memory of his own, never known mother - Zevran saw him as a chance for a new life. But what exactly had he hoped for?

Zevran had lived with the Dalish for three weeks now. Life was pleasant. And it was boring. They treated him reservedly, but affably. He always had good food and plenty of rest. Too much rest for his taste. He could neither acquire a liking for fishing nor for the carving of arrows. He prefered to watch the leather tanners than doing the hard work himself. Also processing herbs became boring over time.

He had been sent to Brethil, the storyteller. This was a young about thirty with a high forehead and a serious, friendly face. He lacked his left arm - he had lost it as a child when the clan had been attacked by a leopard during a tour. Brethil told Zevran about the life of the Dalish, about their history, their gods and their code of Vir Tanadahl - the way of three trees. Zevran did not really listen attentively. It was all too serious and solemn to him.

Vhenan, Sûl's sister, continued to rebuff him. Other girls in the village were quite interested in the young elf. Shannon, the First of the Keeper, made him just as beautiful eyes as Hilija, the daughter of the bowyer Anugwaith. Both were pretty, but more than a teasing conversation was not possible, because they kept strictly to the tradition - before the marriage there was not even a kiss ... But Zevran felt no desire to get married . Moreover, he lacked even a Vallaslin, and that was - as far as he knew - bound to a mysterious ritual. He was glad, very glad that Sûl - probably because of his exceptional situation - didn't feel bound by any of these traditions. The swimming lessons were held regularly; and yes, he also learnt swimming there.

In addition to the time he could spend with Sûl, the hunting was the greatest pleasure for Zevran. Stalking a game, tracking it, but above all, to kill it: The precise shot into the heart and - better yet - the well-placed stab in the neck - eye to eye with the beast - that was his passion, this got his blood pumping, as he liked to say. But the Dalish rarely went out hunting. If the camp was not under attack (and this had never happened again after his experience with the wolf pack), the Dalish only went hunting if food or skins were absolutely needed.

Zevran noticed repeatedly how much he missed his former life with the Crows - the thrill, the constant challenge, the opportunity to prove his own strength.

A tall elf appeared beside him - his relief was there. Zevran, who took over the afternoon shift was now free and could return to the village. The sun was setting. The elders of the clan went into the big counseling tent in the center of the camp. Once a week there was a meeting, so was this evening.

* * *

"He's a good fighter," Brethil, the storyteller, said. "He should get his Vallaslin and a be allowed to choose woman."

"But," Anugwaith, the bowyer, objected "He's just been for a few weeks with us. Isn't this too early?"

"He is a son of our people." Morneryn said quietly. "His mother was a Dalish. And he has released my son from slavery. For me, he belongs to the family."

Some of the Dalish nodded.

"He grew up among humans, he's a flat-ear, we do not know whether we can trust him." Nomovil objected. She was one of the best hunters of the clan.

Keeper Einiora had listened to the discussionin in silence. Now she stamped with their staff on the floor to announce that she would speak. The argument fell silent. All eyes turned respectfully to the old woman, "Let the gods decide." she said firmly. "He should perform the ritual, as do all our young hunters."

The Dalish nodded in agreement, the meeting was disbanded. Only Tathar, Sûls father kept sitting. He waited until the others had left the tent of conseling. Then he turned to the Keeper: "Are the nights not already too cool for the ritual? We will soon start to our winter quarters. Otherwise we would perform the ritual only during the summer."

The Keeper got up, walked over to the man and put her hand on his shoulder, "You have a too soft heart for this boy, Tathar. And you should know better - the dare is much harder in the heat of midsummer than in milder weather. Both your daughter and your son have completed their ritual successfully. Zevran also will suceed, when he is ready. And you know that he can cancel the ritual at any time, if he finds it too hard. The gods will protect him. And - if necessary - the arrows of our fighters, too. "

* * *

_* Vir Tanadahl - "Way of Three Trees" - the code of honor of the Dalish-elves. It consists of three parts:_  
_- Vir Assan - "Way of the Arrow" - fly straight and do not waver_  
_- Vir Bor'Assan - "Way of the Bow" - bend but never break_  
_- Vir Adahlen - "Way of the Forest" - together we are stronger than the one_  
_(source: dragon age wikia)_

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___Yay, two new comments and a new follower for my story! This is always a little bit like Christmas for me. Thank you so much! :)_


	17. Chapter 17: Learning to Fly

_Translation help for this chapter came from Korina1982. Thank you very much! :)_

_And I have another follower. Thank you! I hope you keep enjoying my story. :)_

* * *

**3.5 Learning to Fly**

"You're a good hunter, Zevran." The addressed person grinned with a hint of sarcasm. He had heard this sentence many times in recent weeks. Hunter sounds better than murderer, he thought. Einiora did not seem to notice the cynically shifted angle of the boy's mouth. "But one thing is missing." The old woman said and got up, while leaning on her staff. She came close to Zevran and showed him the carving on the head of the staff: "Do you recognize this? This is the owl, my spirit guide." The keeper glanced at the carving and went over it with her wrinkled hand. "It is a symbol for the god Dirthamen, the keeper of secrets. "The old woman walked slowly back to her seat and sat down again. "Everyone has a spirit guide, you have to find out what is yours. It points you the way to your God. "

Zevran looked at her warily: "What should I do?"

* * *

They had placed a stone circle for him, at a location traditionally used for this ritual: on the top of a slope over a wide plain, unprotected from sun, wind and rain. The place was located about two hours away from the village. The circle was large enough to comfortably sit in it, but too small to stretch out and to lie in it. Three days and nights Zevran should spend here without food and water, without weapons and without clothes, except for a loincloth - an unusual garment for Zevran which the Dalish used to wear as lingerie, and which he regarded as very erotic. Alone with his thoughts, he should wait for the gods to speak to him and reveal his spirit guide.

He had been expressly told that he could quit the ritual at any time, if it would be too difficult. And it would not matter, because he could try it again next year or whenever he felt ready for it. He would only need to leave the circle and go away, or wait until he would be picked up by a guard. Zevran did not believe in the gods of the Dalish or any spirit guides. But he was resolved to prove that he could stand such a test.

The first day was simple - a serene autumn day, warm, the sun caressed by light clouds. Zevrans eyes wandered over the plain, he watched the train of birds and animals that grazed on the distant meadows. The night was more difficult. The wind blew cool on Zevrans naked skin and made him shudder. At some point he fell asleep while sitting. He did not have to worry. He knew that there was a guard nearby. The Dalish protected their young hunters. They would do the same for him, too.

The elf was accustomed to hunger, that did not disturb him much. But from the second day on, he felt the thirst. His tongue stuck to his palate and his head hurt. Zevran concentrated his efforts, he thought of his nights in the basement and other trials that he had to endure as a child at the crows: He would hold on.

Towards evening, the area began to flicker in front of his eyes. Hallucinations and dream shadows appeared, but indistinct, blurred, so that nothing could be realized in them. In the night it began to rain heavily. The rain continued the following day. Zevran's dehydrated body craved for the water, but he kept his mouth closed. It would have been unthinkable for him to break the rules of the ritual.

As the dusk began on the third day, Zevran noticed a dark spot on the rainy sky, far away among the clouds, which slowly came closer to him. Eventually he realized that it was a black bird. He began to suspect, and he was right - it was a crow. It sat down on a tree beside him, on a bare branch, croaked, and looked into his eyes. Zevran held its gaze. Finally, the crow swung up again, flew up to him. The elf did not evade. The crow flew into him. He felt his wings, the air underneath. He got up and flew ... to the tree, across the plain. He felt the wind in the feathering, the rain on the wings, he heard the rustling of the trees, saw the steppe below him, forests and lakes. Far away he flew. More and more in the direction from which the bird had been flying towards him.

As Zevran awoke from his vision, the morning dawned. It was still raining. The elf was freezing and had a sore throat. He noticed a shadow next to him: Sûl was there. His friend had taken over the last night watch near him. The Dalish elf handed him a jug of water:

"Here. You have come through," the boy smiled, "You can drink now."

Zevran apologetically lifted a hand and turned away. His nose itched and he had to sneeze several times. Slightly shivering he took the jug from his friend, croaked a "Thanks!" and eagerly began to drink.

Sûl laughed: "You have caught a cold!"

The blond elf boy set down the pitcher and grinned at the Dalish: "And that's so funny?"

"It's funny, because that happens to all flat-ears who visit us. They are not accustomed to our life, they are sissy."

Zevran laughed hoarsely: "Sissy? You call me sissy? So cruel! And here I hoped you would nurse me with these warm hands and kisses of yours." He sighed and put on the look of a sad puppy.

"Come" Sûl chuckled, "let's go back to the village. There you will get food and blankets. You have to rest now." He took off his leather jerkin and handed it to his friend: "I think you need that more than I do," he winked.

Zevran stood up. At first he was dizzy. Sûl was prepared and held him. Then they started on their way. The Dalish elf had a few berries and slices of dried meat. The former Crow chewed slowly, cautiously. He knew how his body reacted when he had not eaten for some time. The two friends walked silently side by side for a while. Interrupted only by Zevran's occasional coughs and sniffles.

"What is your spirit guide?" the blond elf asked finally.

"The wolf. It is one of the animals that represent Andruil, the goddess of the hunt." Sûl pointed to the tattoo on his forehead: "The symbol of Andruil. Which being did you see?"

"A crow ..."

Sûl looked at Zevran inquiringly: "The crow stands for Falon'Din, the god of fortune and death." Something about Zevrans vision seemed to trouble the young Dalish, but he could not say what it was.


	18. Chapter 18: Rainy Season

_For this long and difficult chapter (well - for me ;)) I got a lot of help: Corkerite, Shadow of Light and TanithAeyrs - thank you very much! :) _

_(If there are still mistakes in the chapter - it's not their fault - I edited a lot in the original version and had to translate it anew. If you find something really bad or a sentence you don't understand, pm me, please. I'm always thankful for grammar help.)_

_Also - thanks for two new reviews and a new follower - you make me happy. :)_

* * *

**3.6 Rainy Season**

After his return to the village Zevran ate only a few spoons of broth and subsequently fell into a restless, often interrupted sleep. The next morning the Keeper came and asked about his visions. Sitting beside him, her staff between her knees, the old woman told him about Falon'Din, the friend of the dead; that he was the twin brother of Dirthamen, and both were the eldest children of Elgar'nan, the All-Father and Mythal, the great protector. She explained the Vallaslin he should soon receive. As the clan would start for its winter quarters in the next few days it was decided to postpone the tattoo until their arrival. The boy should be in perfect health to be able to endure the pain of the blood writing.

Einiora expressed her concern about Zevran's vision. She did not understand why it brought a disease to the young elf and why the rainy season had begun at the same time - earlier than expected. This would be rare, she said. She wanted to ask the gods about it. Zevran did not understand why anyone should worry about a simple cold. Although it rarely happened - it was not the first time in his life he had one.

On the evening of the second day Tathar asked his young guest whether he felt capable to take over a night watch. The responsible hunter had returned with injuries from his reconnaissance mission. Zevran agreed without hesitation. It was the second shift - after midnight until dawn. The post was a few arrow shots away from the village on a hill near the water source. The rain that had fallen incessantly for days didn't drop off. It was not really cold, but Zevran was still freezing. A sneezing attack was followed by a dry cough. "Brasca!" Zevran swore hoarsely.

"You should really be less noisy, you scare the whole forest." Sûl laughed softly. The young Dalish had watched the first part of the night near the Halla. He had a rolled up blanket under his arm and a steaming mug in his hand.

Zevran faced the arriving elf in amusement: "I just wanted to be sure you'll find me," he winked, "But what brings you here? Can't you sleep? Is the itching so bad?" He looked pointedly and boldly pinched in Sûl's right ear tip.

The Dalish elf grinned bashfully. "That too, yes. But I was worried. It's raining so much and you're still sick. Here ..." He gave his friend the mug with hot, strong smelling herb tea. "This will help you."

"Thank you." Zevran sat down on a stump and began to drink the tea in small sips. It did him good, soothed the sore throat. Warmth spread throughout his body. Small beads of sweat appeared on his brow.

Sûl had rolled out the blanket and put it around the companion's shoulders. He touched Zevran's warm and damp forehead. "Zevan, lethallin ..." His voice sounded worried, "You should have told us you have a fever, then we would not have sent you to guard duty. I could take over your shift," he suggested, "You should rather go back to the tent."

"Nonsense, fever …" Zevran twisted his mouth mockingly. "This is only a slightly raised temperature. Nothing to speak of." He took another sip of tea, looked his companion into the eyes, "But I do appreciate that you care for me. Really. Nobody has ever done this." He had to think about Sergio and felt an ominous lump in his throat. He bit his lower lip to dispel the feeling.

Sûl crouched down beside him and put an arm around the shoulders of the other elf. "That goes without saying. That's what... friends... are for."

Zevran grinning cheekily at the Dalish: "If that is so, don't you think you could also warm me in other ways? The tea is almost empty and I'm so cold…"

Sûl laughed and kissed him.

* * *

Later Sûl had fallen asleep and Zevran had placed the blanket over him. The dawn drew up, the rain subsided. The young elf went up and down on his post. He shivered in his wet things. By his cough the Dalish elf was woken. Sûl sat up and frowned. "Come, let us go back to the village, I'll give you my winter armor and more tea."

"I have to wait for my relief. I'm sorry I woke you." Softly trembling Zevran folded his arms over his chest and rubbed the upper arms with his hands. His voice sounded even hoarser than in the night; he looked pale and tired in the morning light. Sûl felt stitches of concern in his heart. Hastily he tried to put the blanket back around his companion's shoulders. He hugged him to warm him.

Zevran laughed softly. "You're cute. It's just a little cough; I do not die of it." He winked.

But Sûl looked at him very seriously. With his left hand he held the ends of the blanket on Zevran's chest; with his right he stroked the too warm face of his companion. He seemed nervous. "Zevran," he said hesitatingly, "I think I have to confess something ..."

"So? What could that be?" The blond elf turned his head away to avoid sneezing into the face of his friend.

Sûl waited until his companion looked at him again. His voice was uncertain: "Zevran… I think I… I've... fallen in love with you."

The words hit Zevran like icy knifes. He froze and went one step backwards; away from the other elf's touch. "Are you serious?" he asked and his own voice sounded far away for him.

The Dalish slowly closed his empty hands and let them sink. He nodded silently and looked inquiringly, hoping; as on the day of their first kiss.

Zevran's heart started to race in an alarming frequency. What did this child want from him? Stay away from me, I'm poison; I'm nothing you can *bond*, he wanted to say. But he knew, he sensed, Sûl would not listen to him. No warning would be strong enough to kill his silly feelings.

No one held the blanket anymore; it slipped off Zevran's shoulders. A cool gust seized him. His body shivered. And suddenly; as if someone had halted his heartbeat, he became calm and everything was clear. He knew what he would do. What he had to do.

Zevran started laughing. It was a chilly, incisive laughter; like splintering glass: "In love? I don't believe it. ... He is in love! By Andraste!" He shook his head, his laughter ended in a cough.

"So... you... not?" Sûl's eyes were full of fear now.

The gaze of the former Crow turned cold, cynical: "Do not get me wrong, Sûl, you're a sweet guy, really handsome. When I see you I want you in bed. The same I feel when I see your sister. Or Shannon. Or any other woman and every other man with a nice ass." His hoarseness gave the sneer in his voice a cruel sharpness.

The Dalish walked slowly backwards. His brown eyes were filled with tears, his lips trembled. "Get off!" he hissed, and his eyes narrowed with hatred. "Get out of my sight; I never want to see you again, never again." He turned and ran away.

Zevran looked after the Dalish with half-lowered eyes. The rain became stronger again. Eventually the elf picked up the blanket. It was soggy and couldn't warm him anymore. Nevertheless he pulled it tightly around his shoulders. Everything cynical had gone from his face, he looked sad.

* * *

The broken day was the last before the departure. When Zevran arrived in the village, the sleeping tent of Sûl's family was packed; the tarps were stowed on the Aravel. He would not have the chance to rest anymore. Zevran gathered up his things and changed his clothes. He chose the armor in which he had come - the leather armor of the Crows. It was tight, he had grown.

The rain did not stop. Zevran was concerned about the upcoming days and nights: The sleeping places in the tents were less comfortable than the beds in the city, but the next time he would even have far less comfort - Sûl had told him that the Dalish, while they were underway, just slept close to close on their Aravels. Was this really the life he had wanted?

Sûl kept out of his way. His parents noticed the sudden distance. And even if the young Dalish did not tell them what had happened with any word; their behavior to their guest-son became noticeably cooler. Zevran doubted that he would still be welcome in the family's Aravel. Another night spent in the same sleeping tent with Sûl was now hard to imagine. That was good, that would make it easier for everyone...

The Dalish were a proud people, serious and honest. Most of them regarded him as a stranger, full of mistrust. But he had also experienced affection, care and trust - by Sûl, whose parents, by the Keeper and Brethil. And it was wrong. It was wrong that they trusted him.

Einiora saw in his sickness, his silly cold, some meaning. Maybe she was right: Zevran had not taken the culture of the Dalish seriously. He had secretly mocked their stories and their faith. And he had lied to them - from the first day on. He had not thought about why he did it. Fibs were only a game for him; a game he thought he had down pat. Perhaps it was out of pity, because he did not want to conceal what had really happened to the daughter of their people and the son she had given birth in the distant city. Perhaps it was out of shame about his former life that he wanted to leave behind. Perhaps out of respect for the Crows and their secrets.

But the Dalish were not marks, whose throats he would cut at after a few charming flatteries. One cannot build a new life on lies. His vision - whether it was divine inspiration or his own sore conscience - had unmasked his fraud, had revealed his true nature: He was no Dalish and would never be one. Do not kid yourself, Zevran. Everything you can, everything you know, and all you'll ever be is just a damn Crow.

Silent moon light lay over the camp. From the milky overcast sky a tenuous drizzle fell. A single tent still stood in the middle of the camp: the big counseling tent where the entire village was sleeping this night on simple blankets. At dawn, they would take it down together and start out on their journey toward the Drylands. Zevran knew the guard posts and knew how he could hide from them. Once again it was a night, whose shadows he willingly searched to disappear invisible, inaudible.

* * *

_This was the last chapter of "A Dalish Intermezzo". During the next days I'll start posting the fourth and final part of "An Assassin's Childhood"._


	19. Chapter 19: Antiva City Gossip (Prolog)

**An Assassin's Childhood**

**Part 4: Of Fortune and Death**

**Prolog: Antiva City Gossip**

During the four weeks that Zevran had spent with the Dalish, a lot of things had happened in Antiva City. A week after his disappearance Mayor di Manico and Senator Lorenzo had lost their lives tragically: They were found in the office of the mayor, naked on the ground. Both men held vials of caustic liquid clenched in one hand. They had dripped, leaving holes in the carpet and even the wooden floor below. Of course there were rumors that the Crows were behind it, but there was found enough evidence for corruption and a secret intimate relationship between the two men in their correspondence; so a double suicide seemed a likely explanation.

Gossips said Signora di Manico visited all the orphanages in the city in her unsuccessful search for a blond elf boy. Her daughter, Martha, contacted Senator Lorenzo's son; the two were determined to investigate the mysterious circumstances that led to their fathers' deaths. Most considered this just a whim of two bored noble children and did not believe they would have any success.

The man who became the new mayor of Antiva City, Fernando Curantigno, was a nephew and pawn of house Arainai, a trade dynasty. Rumor said two complete Crow cells belonged to his house.

* * *

_The translation of this little snippet almost killed me because of the passive voice. *head... desk.* TanithAeyrs helped me to make it understandable. Thank you, dear! :)_

_Also thanks to Melysande for another nice comment! I'm glad you like my story. :)_

_(will post the next chapter in a few minutes)_


	20. Chapter 20: What Are You?

**4.1 What Are You?**

It was an arduous return journey in continuous rain. Zevran had to swim through the swollen ford this time. All his things, even all his luggage, got wet. He cursed when he poured water from his good boots. He could still remember the exact day when he had bought them - it was shortly before his Manico mission, and he had saved the money for the shoes over several months. Now they were completely ruined. This angered him more than the fact that he was forced to go on in wet clothes. It was not good for his cold. In particular, the cough persisted.

The elf was surprised to find his room untouched. He put down his baggage, dug into his wardrobe after dry clothes and changed out of his wet. Exhausted, he lay on his bed. He was rather unwell and would gladly have slept; but the thoughts of what would await him made it impossible for him to come to rest. He twisted his mouth sarcastically at himself, as he thought about what he had fled and where to ...

There were two possibilities: either they would kill him immediately, or they would punish him. And the punishment would likely be deadly, too. The possibility that he might survive; and they would accept him back at the Crows were so low... Aaah, the familiar thrill ... He was prepared. And he was sure that he would not have to wait long...

When they stormed in - a group of four - to take him, he made no resistance. He simply got up and allowed them to pull him. They brought him to the basement, locked him overnight in a water cell. Zevran cursed his cold. He had learned to avoid pain sounds. But as much as he tried, he could not always suppress his cough. It was so humiliating and infuriating. His tormentors took advantage of the weakness: Every time the elf had to cough, he got another jet of water.

The next morning they pulled him out of the cell and chained him to the rack. As mocking as it might be - he was glad he could lie in the dry. He was wet, frozen and felt a stabbing pain in his chest. Zevran looked closely at his torturers. These were two elves, still young. One had long, reddish brown hair and piercing orange eyes, the other dark hair, his eyes were small and gray. They wore the Arainai sign at their left temple. But that was hardly recognizable, as their faces were covered with lots of additional tattoos that looked somehow Dalish. Not really Dalish, Zevran thought, no Vallaslin, only faked.

"There, you see, now he has flinched!" the redhead said gleefully.

"Pretty stubborn this traitor. But we will make you scream, apprentice!" the second said. "We are not going to go easy on you, trust me."

Zevran knew this type of torturers. They were the losers among the Crows, not belonging to a real group; they haven't managed to become spies or assassins. He attempted a cynical smile, "Go on! I wouldn't want you to hold back. I would be disappointed if you did."

"Oh, this one has spirit." the redhead said sarcastically. "What a shame we have to break him." He pulled the wheel jerkily stronger. A violent pain pervaded throughout Zevran's whole body. He screwed up his face, but did not scream.

"Look out!" the dark-haired said quietly.

The first one nodded and held. Instead, he took a whip and struck Zevran's bare belly. There was instantly a thick red stripe.

"What are you?" he shouted. He asked "what", not "who".

Zevran bit away the pain, laughed softly, "What do you want to hear?

The elf struck again, a second streak was visible, "What are you?"

"A Crow."

The elf hit for the third time. "What are you?"

Zevran had to cough. The red-haired elf came close to his face. He whispered scornfully: "You are nothing, absolutely nothing. You are a traitor and a runaway. You are a disgrace and I have no idea why I should leave you alive." He spat in his face.

The next night Zevran spent back in the water cell. And another. The cough did not desist, it became worse. During the day they tied him to the rack or whipped him. The torturers changed, their methods remained the same. If Zevran lost consciousness or fell asleep, they woke him with water and blows. They did not want answers. Their aim was to torture him, to break him.


	21. Chapter 21: A Reason to Live

**4.2 A Reason to Live**

It was the sixth night. Zevran was sure it would be his last; that he would not survive it. He had long since given up all attempts to suppress the cough. The attacks were violent, his whole chest ached and breathing was difficult. Chills tormented him, his teeth chattered. But his tormentors left him no peace. Again and again they dumped a surge of water over his trembling body. Then he heard voices in the corridor.

"Stop that immediately, you idiots!" That was Taliesen. The water jet was silent. "What morons are you? Torture I said, not killing!" Zevran heard faint-hearted murmurings of excuses. "But you can see if one is sick!" That was Taliesen's upset voice again.

The cell door opened. Up to now Zevran had crouched trembling in the corner. Now he was standing upright, trying to avoid any shaking. He looked with open hatred in Taliesen's face.

The man looked at the elf inquiringly: "How long have you got this cough."

Zevran cynically twisted his mouth, his voice was very weak. "It's just a cold."

Taliesen laughed uproariously. "Maybe it was one." He handed Zevran a large towel, "towel yourself and get dressed up! I'll take you to your room."

The Crow torturers had done a good job: Zevran's body was covered with abrasions and bruises. All his bones and joints ached. But there were no breaks, nothing was dislocated and there were no large cuts or puncture wounds. He was to remain operational, someone needed him. Albeit nobody had considered a disease. Zevran wondered if he would now disappear, like sick children. And he did not care.

In the changing room Zevran got gray trousers and a simple white shirt. Both were too large. Arriving in his room he sat on the bed. He was trembling, short of breath and had to cough again.

Taliesen stopped at the door, looked in a hurry, "You stay where you are, I'll be right back!" Zevran shrugged his shoulders. Where should he go?

When the healer came, Zevran was back on his bed; as on the day when he was taken to the basement. Only paler, thinner, with fever spots on the hollow cheeks and blue lips. The physician listened to his chest and his back with a tube, looked at his eyes, felt his pulse.

"I do not think it is the wasting," he said finally as if he would answer a previously asked question. "Even though I cannot definitely exclude it. He's running a high fever. In any case, he's got a pneumonia and pleurisy. He will not live much longer, maybe a week."

Taliesen cursed lowly. "No chance?"

The doctor shrugged: "Well, if he is strong and lucky... He would need bed rest, good food, tonic herbs; healing magic if possible."

Zevran realized very little. A single sentence he had understood: He would die. It relieved him to hear this, he longed for the death. The blood was boiling in his veins. His entire body ached. Every breath was infinitely difficult and associated with the fear of a further painful cough attack. His consciousness waned. It was a mercy.

* * *

_The young Dalish knelt beside the sleeping spot of his friend. With a deeply worried face, he stroked his hot face: "You glow so with fever, Lethallin, what happened?"_

_"I am ill, Sûl. I feel very weak."_

_"Do not worry, Lethallin, I'll stay with you, I'll take care of you ..."_

Slowly Zevran came around. He tried to remember what had happened. But his by the fever nebulized meaning understood nothing. Breathing hurt him. He felt a blanket over him and someone had put a wet cloth on his forehead. "Sûl?" he asked in confusion. It was less than a whisper.

"Wrong guess," a female voice replied.

Zevran laboriously opened his eyes. It took a while before he realized where he was and recognized the elven woman next to him. "Ginera?" Speaking hurt so much. His tongue stuck to his dry palate. "What are you doing here?" He tried to wet his parched lips with his tongue. It was impossible. But he started to remember. He must have been unconscious. For how long? And why was he even still alive?

The woman rose: "Don't think I volunteered to be here, kid, it was an order by Taliesen." She breathed audibly, her voice sounded scornful. "I do not know what you did that he means we have to treat you like a lap dog."

Despite his miserable condition, Zevran succeeded a cynical grin. Was she jealous? "He made me almost tortured to death, my dear."

"Oh?" Her tone was snippy. "Ok, you win. That's not worth it." She went to the door. "I let them know you're awake."

* * *

"What do you care if I die?" Zevran asked coldly, his voice still faint and hoarse.

Taliesen's tone was not warmer "We need any good man, and you've proven to be damn useful. It was very stupid of you to run away." The young human leaned against the door frame, he had his legs crossed, his arms folded over his chest and looked at the elf who was lying in bed.

Zevran shrugged his shoulders. He tried to suppress a cough but failed. The attack was long and painful. Ashamed of his own weakness, he turned his gaze to the window.

"You have done a good job at the Manicos," Taliesen said, unaffected. "But how you killed Goisar was even better."

The elf did not turn around. It did not surprise him that the capo knew what had happened.

Taliesen chuckled, "No blood, no traces of violence, it looked as if his heart had simply stopped beating. Ingenious."

After Zevran showed no reaction, Taliesen raised again: "Listen, you're good, and I want you for a job."

"Why did you have me tortured then?" asked the young elf, without changing his direction of view.

Taliesen snorted "You do not take it personally, right? It was clear that you had to be punished. For running away and for the murder of Goisar. But the torture had yet another meaning," he walked over to the window to force his sight upon the elf: "Who wants to be a crow, must endure pain. Torture is part of the ritual. This should be your dedication, too. You should get your marking."

Zevran tried to laugh, it became a cough again. "Rituals ..." Even in his weak voice a sound of mockery could be heard. "I am not sixteen yet. And what makes you believe I would work for you again?" He looked ostentatiously past the young man out of the window.

The team-leader stepped closer to the bed. "You are sixteen, when the master orders you to undergo the dedication and ..." Pointedly slowly he pulled a rolled-up paper from his belt bag and waved it through the air: "...I thought you might be interested in killing the man who killed Sergio."

Zevran glance turned to Taliesen. His fever-bright eyes looked determined.

* * *

_Thank you for another nice review, Melysande. I see you know a lot about Zevran and the lore. :)_

_(No translation helps this time)_


	22. Chapter 22: Markings

_My thoughts about the tattoos of Zevran (and the Crows in general) are in this chapter. (This is almost completely rewritten. So it's a brand-new version for you. :))_

* * *

**Chapter 3: Markings**

It lasted more than a week until Zevran's fever had dropped enough to enable him clearer thinking. The aches waned and his appetite returned.

The elf wondered more than once why he was still alive. As he was used that the Crows saw their members as expendable objects; he counted on getting killed or left to die in the dungeons when he had become ill. What was Taliesen's plan and why would he – the young apprentice – be so important for that?

During his crisis almost all the time someone of Taliesen's team was with him. Now he had his room mostly for his own again; and only once in a while somebody looked after him. Zevran knew to utilize his extraordinary privileges. So he asked for books and papers from the Crow's archive; and he got them. He studied foreign languages and showed interest in the history and politics of Antiva. Besides he filled his recipe book with the toxins and herbals of the Dalish.

Now and then he happened to think of Sûl. He had seen the Dalish boy often in his fever dreams. But he thrust aside those thoughts violently. They were false. He had decided against a life with the Dalish and against the affection of this boy._ You have what you wanted, Zevran. You've got rid of him and his silly feelings. You are with the Crows again, where you belong._

Affection he had not to fear here. Vengeance was the feeling that strengthened him. The hope of satisfaction was as wholesome as good food, medicine and warm baths.

The healer came every two days – always accompanied by Taliesen. He was surprised about the quick recovery of the boy. Nevertheless he insisted on strong bed rest as long as he still had a fever – even a low one. But Zevran was impatient. The sight of his weak, meager body in the mirror frustrated him. So he stood up repeatedly to start with a strength training he had learnt during his apprentice years.

* * *

After a short knock Taliesen entered his room and watched him critically during his workout. The elf wore only a half-length linen trousers, his upper body was free, even calves and feet were bare. His face was still pale and the body was emaciated. Angrily the team leader closed the door and went on to the young boy. "Why are you not in bed, Zevran? You do not look as if you should already train."

Zevran interrupted his practice and darted a questioning glance at the capo. It did not fit to the Crows that someone took care of him. "I'm fine," the elf made great efforts to give his still hoarse voice a firm emphasis. "I must get back in shape, have hardly any muscle. However ...," he grinned, "I would go back to bed, if you come with me."

With two quick steps, the young human reached Zevran. He grabbed his right arm and twisted it to the side; pushed one elbow against his chest, and swept him with a quick movement of his left foot off his feet. He knelt on the boy who was lying on the floor and held the blade of his dagger to his throat. "There you are, you big mouth. Do you really think you're ready to fight again?" He hissed and kept pressing the blade against Zevran's neck until its tip started to redden. "Do you even understand what I've done for you? You were unconscious for days, your condition was critical for almost two weeks. I had to go to the Black City and back to assure that nobody just threw you in a canal. I advise you to take the time that I give you to rest. If you get a recrudescence I'll kill you personally."

Taliesen loosened the grip. His short, fierce attack had caused some red marks on Zevran's body. Blood was seeping from the small cut at his throat. But the elf did not show any signs of pain. He was lying under the human with emphasized relaxation; smiling mockingly: "Somehow I had imagined your first approach differently. But I do like the wild way very much."

Taliesen appeared indecisive for a moment; then his angry face faded and he started laughing: "Your talent is unique; I've got to hand it to you." He got up and helped Zevran to his feet. Then he pulled him to the bed, instructed him to lie down. Himself, he sat down beside him. "Listen, Zevran, I think a great deal of you. I need you for this contract; and I need you in best form. So see to do your utmost to get quickly healthy, really healthy. This mission is my... our big chance. Do not disappoint me, do you hear me? "

Zevran knew this sentence. The memory of Sergio squeezed at his heart, "What should I prepare for?"

The team leader smiled: "All in good time. As soon as the physician thinks you are ready, you should go to the master. He would like to speak to you personally. Until then I have only one order for you: cure completely. If I see you one more time outside your bed with a fever, I'll tie you to the bedpost."

The young elf smirked cheekily: „Hmm… now you make it even more intriguing. "

* * *

Zevran had already seen Master Antonio from time to time. However, he had never had the privilege to talk to him personally. His office was on the top floor of the headquarters of the cell and was simply furnished. There was a desk, on which papers were ordered to several clean piles, a weapon cabinet and a couch. Outside the window was a dense grid, which let only little light into the room. The Master was standing with his back to the cabinet. He was dressed all in black; a refined metal belt was wrapped around his waist. His hands were behind his back and he looked at his visitor through half-closed eyes. "So, you are Zevran ..."

"You wanted to see me?" asked the elf, and raised an eyebrow in anticipation.

Master Antonio went a few steps towards Zevran. He was an undersized, sinewy elf, not larger than his younger counterpart. He looked like he was between forty and fifty. His long, blond and tightly back-combed hair was traversed by silvery threads. The brown skin of his face, decorated with a few simple tattoos, looked ripe without being wrinkled - how well-tanned leather, Zevran thought. The Master had dark blue eyes which were difficult to interpret.

"Sergio had told a lot about you. Taliesen was enthusiastic about your work at the Manicos. I'm not going to ask you why you killed Goisar and were running away. You got your punishment. And you endured it." He studied the young with an opaque look, "Even when you were almost dead, you never screamed. It would have been a shame to let you die."

Zevran ventured a mocking smile, "A Crow must endure pain, they say."

The Master twitched briefly with the left corner of his mouth. "You should get your dedication right after the Manico job. I was told you were not sixteen yet, but who knows that for sure. Or can you tell me your birthday?"

The young Crow grinned and shrugged his shoulders. He knew he was seven when he was sold to the Crows, because he was told so. In the brothel a birthday was never celebrated, and in the Crows the anniversary of his purchase had always been the datum which influenced his age.

"That's what I thought," the master assassin said. The left corner of his mouth twitched again as if he tried to smile. "You know the meaning of our markings?"

Zevran pulled up his shoulders in emphatic indifference: "The crescent-shaped mark of Arainai which the elven assassins wear on their left temple, the humans on the inside of their left forearm; the signs of the Crows guild on the right shoulder blade, the sign of Antiva City on the right upper arm."

Antonio nodded.

"I ask myself," the young elf objected "How that difference is justified. Why do only the elves wear the sign in their faces, humans not?"

The master assassin laughed throatily without a smile, "This is an interesting question, indeed." He watched the young elf's face. "The official version - Arainai believes that an elf without tattoos in their face is more conspicuous than with. If you ask me, it's because humans find tattooed elves attractive and ..." He came very close to Zevran. "…because we are easy to identify this way. What makes the job as an assassin harder for us than for the humans and hence the rise in the guild."

"And yet you are as an elf master of a cell." Zevran remarked appreciatively. He felt as if he would recognize a short flash in the eyes of the master. Externally Antonio maintained his opaque facade. "Ready for your markings?"

* * *

Zevran sat at his dressing table, charcoal pencil and paper in hand. He considered. He had the opportunity to ask for extra tattoos. Most of the elves did it to make the sign in their face look more like a decoration than a marking.

Some of them tried to give themselves the appearance of Dalish. This, Zevran did not want; he honored this proud people too much; even though he had decided against a life with them. The time he had spent with them was important to him. He had experienced recognition and affection without deceit. He remembered Brethil's stories about the ancient gods of the elves, thought of his own vision of Falon'Din, the friend of the dead; the God intended for himself. He knew how the Vallaslin of Falon'Din looked like: It was a gate, made up of two interconnecting twin trees - the twin brothers Dirthamen and Falon'Din, indicated in tangled lines as crooked branches on both cheeks; they met on the forehead and gave free a passage.

He wanted this symbol, but simplified, broken. He drew and pondered, looked at his face in the mirror. Finally he had finished his design: two simple, sweeping lines on the left cheek, they should be adapted in sweep and color of the crescent-shaped mark of house Arainai. The lines should represent the trees; the space between them would be the gate - the passage to the fade, to death. _Moreover_ - he thought -_ these lines would look damn good, and emphasize the shape of my cheeks_. Smiling, he went on his way.


	23. Chapter 23: Short Insights

_A quite short chapter this time and I didn't change anything. So I could publish it fast. _

_Thank you again for your wonderful reviews, Melysande. I'm so happy you read my story and let me know what you like about it. :)_

* * *

**4.4 Short Insights**

Salvatore Trinibelli was a merchant prince from Rivain. He had a stately residence in Antiva City near the royal palace. And he was a notorious enemy of the house Arainai. They said he was obsessed with the insane idea to eradicate its Crow cells completely. There had been several assassination attempts on him. All have failed; most recently this by Sergio. As a born Rivaini, Trinibelli was not allowed to have his own Crow cell. But he knew how to help himself: His property was filled with traps and he had bought his own little army for his protection: Qunari, apostates, a few former crows.

These traitors were the ones who gave the guild a hard fight. They knew all the tricks of the trade and were difficult to grasp. The whole house of Arainai was scheduled for Trinibellis neck. The plans had been running at full steam for months.

Injecting a mole in the house of the merchant princes proved to be extremely difficult. Those who entered the estate left it in most cases only dead. The only persons, the merchant allowed to his house, were suppliers; who reached up not further than to the servants' entrance; and young male escorts, of whom he liked to be massaged.

* * *

She felt like he put something around her neck; and he covered her soft white skin under her pinned-up hair with tender kisses. She reached for the object and turned around to look in the mirror. "The necklace is beautiful. Thank you, Lorenzo!"

"Happy new year, amora," the young man said lovingly and kissed her smiling lips.

She beamed at him. "That's sweet of you. I have something for you, too." She pulled a small, yellowed journal with a black leather cover from the neckline of her dress. "The diary of my father. I have found it in his desk, in a secret compartment. You will not believe it - he had connections to the Circle of Magi. I have sent a messenger, and I hope we'll learn more soon."

The young Lorenzo di Lorenzo took the journal to hand and began to decipher the narrow font: "Martha, you are magic."

* * *

Taliesen and Antonio had spread out a large map on the table in the meeting room. Taliesen's people gathered around the table and looked excited - it was the plan of Trinibellis property.

"The problem is that the target is difficult to achieve with an open attack. There have been four attempts, the losses were high each time. We lost almost two whole teams." Antonio looked around with his hardly interpretable eyes. "The next idea was to inject a mole in the house. Even if he succeeded for a short time, and we owe this order the plan of the outdoor area - it was more difficult to extract our man again, because the guards themselves are strictly controlled. "

"You said he likes young callboys?" Zevran stood relaxed and smiling at the left side of the table. He looked good, rested and strong. The fresh tattoo became him extremely well, the new armor of Antivian leather flattered his slender build. The boots he had oiled and polished with care.

Taliesen nodded "We had already assigned several young crows that tried to gain access in this manner. However, the target had turned out to be extremely ..." The teamleader let his eyes rest markedly long on the handsome face of the elf "...picky."

"Oh...," Zevran smirked, "...do I hear a challenge?"

* * *

The door opened without knocking. Zevran was momentarily with his back to the window, a dagger in his hand.

"You have grown," the elven lass said and smiled.

"Ginera? What do you want?" the young assassin looked skeptically at the young woman. Her hair was open, the soft brown curls fell on her shoulders and back. She wore a tight, low-cut leather vest, which was unlikely to be useful as armor. Slowly she came toward Zevran, put her hand on his, that still carried the dagger, and pushed it gently down. Her face drew closer to his, until their cheeks almost touched. She smelled of honey and jasmine, her lips glistened dark red: "Has anyone already told you that your tattoo is damn sexy?" she whispered in his ear.

Zevran chuckled: "You do not seriously believe I would kiss you again?"

"Just don't lick your lips, young Crow."


	24. Chapter 24: The Sanguine Angel

_Again many thanks for your nice review, Melysande. Your support means a lot to me. :)_

_Translated this chapter myself, but got a little grammar help by Corkerite. thank you, my dear! :)_

* * *

**4.5 The Sanguine Angel**

"But that's ... Zevran! Elsadora look, our Zevran is here!" the older woman called into the dark room, some ladies came running. The woman with the elaborately coiffed gray hair turned again to the elf, took his hands in hers: "My goodness, you've grown and so handsome. Come in!" She pulled him deeper into the foyer of the brothel which was equipped with a range of petite, red, upholstered furniture . "Tell me, what drives you here? Our ladies or the boys, how are you, tell me!" Olinda's time as an active prostitute had been past years ago. Of her charm the sixty year-old had lost nothing. Her face that once must have been very beautiful, still lit up in a rosy tone. Or was it just her powder?

"Such a friendly welcome, Olinda? At that time you could not get rid of me fast enough." The assassin smiled sourly.

There was it again, the home of his childhood: the smell of pomade and cheap perfume, the red-painted walls, the gloomy light. A little elf boy in a neat dark blue suit with groomed hair, ran around with a tray and offered the guest a drink. He might have been only six or seven. Zevran felt a pang in the pit of the stomach and swallowed. He took a glass of brandy from the tray and put down a silver coin. The boy's face beamed.

"But Zev ..." The former prostitute led the elf to one of the red upholstered chairs, sat down on a second opposite him, crossed her legs and put her hands on the upper knee. The ruffles of her long, loose dress spread out on the chair and the dark wood floor. "What kind of future would we have offered you here? Believe me, it was the best for you by your talent, your intelligence."

Zevran raised an eyebrow. "Have I brought a good price at least?"

Olinda laughed "Oh yes, more than all the other children at that time. Not less than three Souvereigns."

The Elf chuckled and shook his head. His new armor had cost more ... "To be honest, I'm here on business ... Tell me, Signore Trinibelli visits your house often?" He handed the elderly bawd a scroll. This, she studied slowly, nodded and put the role to her cleavage. "Come, I'll show you where you can dress up."

The young assassin laughed: "As if you'd have to show me the house."

Zevran was preparing for a longer stay in "L'Angelo Sanguigno". He was the spider that sat on the net, waiting for its prey. He lacked for nothing - he got a good room and was supplied with everything he desired. Of course he did not have to serve customers, unless he expressly wished to. He used his time: he learned all of the massages the target desired so much and became well aquainted with all employees of the house.

* * *

Salvatore Trinibelli entered the brothel. He was a well known guest at the "Angelo Sanguigno". At least once a month, he came here. He was accompanied by twelve heavily armed and geared-up men - his bodyguard that escorted him everywhere. He himself wore an expensive dragonscale armor - light, but very effective against arrows or flying daggers. Only when his men had checked every corner of the room, he took off his helmet.

The merchant prince was a short, strongly-built man in his mid-thirties. He had a carefully coiffed dark blonde balding, watery blue eyes and wore a beard to Rivaini fashion: the accurately cut beard hair framed his mouth, while the cheeks were shaved. On the left ear he wore a single jeweled earring.

Olinda hastened immediately to the wealthy guest to be of service: "Again the boys, signore?" the procuress asked. "We have some fresh here. I am sure you will be extremely satisfied."

He immediately noticed the new boy - a very handsome blond elf with semi long hair, honey-colored eyes and a wonderfully sleek, well-defined body. "You master massages?" he asked. Zevran smiled seductively and whispered: "But of course, signore, all of twelve.." Trinibelli gave the signal that he had chosen.

The merchant prince had stretched out on his stomach with bare chest. He still wore his pants and shoes. Zevran began with a gentle massage of the shoulders and neck. He chose an oil with a delicate almond scent. Trinibelli stretched and groaned with pleasure: "Where ever in the world have you been so far, my golden boy?" he asked.

"I am new to the business. I used to work as a scullion." That was not a lie.

"What a waste of your talent!" Trinibelli groaned.

The hands of the assassin walked down and up the back. He found every muscle, every tense point and knew how to release the tension. Trinibellis pleasurable moans grew more and more to a purr. Zevran came close to the ear of the man and - looking at the two heavily armed guards standing at the door - he asked: "Do they actually have to be here? I would think we could relax better without these two?

Trinibelli sighed regretfully. "They're here for my protection There's no other way, there were too many attempts on my person." He sat up, took one hand of the elf's, looked at it and began to stroke it. "But talented hands like these are welcome to my house. Come over tomorrow." He pressed a card into Zevran's hand, stood up, beckoned to his guards and got dressed. Before he had left the room entirely, he turned around and blow the elf a kiss. The young assassin replied with a suggestive glance.

* * *

Zevran spread the plan on the table in the room of his teamleader - a sketch of the entrance and the first floor of the Trinibelli residence, all rooms he had seen on his way to the bedroom of the merchant prince, with precise descriptions of the furnishings, windows and doors; where security guards were and where he suspected traps.

"Excellent work," Taliesen praised. "And he was all alone?"

"Yes, he was alone in his bedroom, the guards waited in front of the door. However - I had to strip naked before I was allowed to enter."

Taliesen looked shocked and amused at once: "Completely naked?"

"Completely and utterly," Zevran laughed. "I had trouble concealing the hidden weapons in my clothing from the guards, but to take something inside... Impossible."

"And the prince himself?"

Zevran grinned. "He was also naked."

Taliesen chuckled. "Did you at least have fun?"

"You know me," the elf replied cynically grinning as he clenched his right hand to a hollow fist and moved it up and down "I take my peasures wherever life offers them. However, it would have been much more fun for me to ram him a dagger between the ribs. "

"But you have an idea how you would kill him?"

The cynical smile on the face of the young assassin transformed into a sly, "In fact, I have ..."


	25. Chapter 25: Ways of Fortune (Part 1)

_Jenovan helped me with the grammar in this chapter. Thank you very much! *hugs*_

_And thank you, Melysande and Urd85613, for your nice reviews. I hope you also enjoy the last few chapters of this story. :)_

* * *

**4.6 Ways of Fortune (Part 1)**

Wearing a razor-sharp hairpin with an immediately fatal poison in his hair, was extremely risky, but necessary in this case. And it would not be noticeable if the young elf grabbed in a moment of highest ecstasy into his own hair. Then it was only a question of sinking the needle into the right place in the man's throat quickly enough that he would not get the chance to cry out in pain.

Trinibelli stroked the face of the attractive elf. Suddenly a dark line became visible under the make-up. The merchant prince was startled and raised his head from the pillow: "Wait a minute, you're tattooed?"

Zevran remained outwardly entirely calm. But as he lay naked on the belly of his victim, it was difficult to hide his rapidly beating heart: "In fact, I have had my face embellished. Olinda was not sure whether it pleases the customers. So I was told to hide it. Do you like it? I could take my make-up off, if you prefer. "

But Trinibelli would not be calmed down by the pretty lies, he was extremely skeptical. Would he call the guards? Zevran had no time to think twice. He grabbed in his hair, but at that moment the gesture seemed anything but "natural." The merchant tried to get up, his lips parted to cry. Lightning fast Zevran shut the mouth with his left hand.

The merchant was fighting tooth and nail. He was not a trained fighter, but he was strong! No chance for Zevran to reach the throat with his needle. On the contrary, he had to be careful not to sting himself. He managed to insert the needle into the left arm of the merchant, which had hindered his hand. Trinibelli frightened pulled his arm away, which gave the assassin a chance to reach for the neck. But he did not meet the right point.

The merchant was significantly weakened, but he still defended himself trying to get rid of the hand on his mouth by biting it. (Good thing the Crow had learned to endure pain in silence.) The assassin pulled the needle out off the neck and sank it right into the heart of the merchant prince. Finally the man let him go. The twitching subsided, he was dead.

Zevran sweated and was completely out of breath. He shook his aching left hand, it was even bleeding by Trinibelli's bites. And he was scared - had they noticed something at the other side of the door? Would a guard burst in at any moment? He closed his eyes, concentrated, forced himself to relax. It was quiet in the hall, but his time was limited. It was agreed that the guards knocked to the latest after half an hour to inquire whether everything was in order. How many minutes had passed since he had entered the room?

The assassin removed the now bloody hairpin from the chest of his victim and put it carefully back into his hair. His gaze fell on the earring the merchant wore. A small golden loop with a tiny, sparkling gemstone. Certainly not expensive, but refined, a collector's item. Zevran took it. He had no memory of Sergio, he would at least have one of his murderer.

The escape route was carefully planned, but extremely dangerous. As silently as possible he had to open the window. The naked elf had to jump on the head of the single guard underneath in a way that the guard would collapse dead or at least unconscious.

He had not thought it would hurt so much to land with bare feet on a steel helmet. But the jump seemed to have succeeded, the guard tipped silently forward. Zevran fell backwards at the same time with his back against the wall. There were a few nasty, bloody drag marks, and again he had to bite away the pain.

Now the still naked assassin had to sneak across the yard up to the bush by the wall, where a package was hidden for him with clothes, shoes and two daggers. At the back door he was attacked by four guards. They had no chance against the Crow snipers who were stationed on rooftops and in the opposite building. Zevran could escape.

* * *

The old healer who had looked after him during his illness, treated his hand, his back and a few slash wounds Zevran had obtained during the fight against the guards. The young elf took the opportunity to get an earlobe piercing by an expert hand and put on his new trophy.

Taliesen, Antonio, and - it was said - even Arainai were more than satisfied with the output of Zevrans first assassination mission. After the young elf had killed the main target, several groups of crows attacked Trinibelli's property. After the death of their employer many of his guards had fled. Only his most devoted servants entrenched themselves in the house and offered a fierce struggle with the attacking crows. It should have been a great slaughter, but the losses were relatively small. Most of the fleeing guards were caught by other groups of Crows in the streets and at the harbor. There were special awards for each slain traitor.

Zevran was kept out of the big fight, he should rest - there was a new mission he should attend to as soon as possible. For Taliesen, the success of his group's plan meant a significant rise within the cell.


	26. Chapter 26: Ways of Fortune (Part 2)

_Thank you for another review - yes, what a cruel and sad life he had... :( And... I'm happy about a new follower and favorite. :)_

_A bit of translation help came from Jenovan again. Thank you! :)_

* * *

**Ways of Fortune (part 2)**

"New Job..." Master Antonio said in the neutral tone of a transaction. "A mage who has interfered too much in urban policy for Arainai's taste. For tomorrow his return to the circle is announced. He is accompanied by only a single guard in the carriage. That should not be a problem for you." He handed the young assassin a scroll with information on the case.

"A mage?" the Assassin asked skeptically. Einiora and Shannon were the only mages Zevran had experienced before. They dominated nature magic spells such as the induction of fireflies, they were able to use the natural environment, so they could root or paralyze their enemies temporarily. But what Zevran had heard of the legendary mages - they could shoot lightning and fire from their hands.

Antonio drew down the corner of his mouth. "Just stab him faster than he can move his hands" was his final advice.

* * *

The assassin was disguised as an ambassador of the mayor with a mandate to bring a message to the circle of the magi. It was arranged that he could travel in the coach with the mage. To his surprise, the mage was a charming young lady with reddish-blond hair and amazing long legs. She wore a richly embroidered robe of ivory and gold silk. He talked to her and her guardian, they joked a lot and drank wine. When the mage slept, her guard suddenly collapsed. Unfortunately, the dead guard fell on the mage. She woke up. Startled, the young woman screamed when she noticed that the man had not just fallen asleep, but was dead! Zevran covered her mouth. "Hush, my dear, quiet."

The young woman fell to her knees. Her eyes filled with tears, her lips trembled. "Please do not kill me, please not..." she begged him.

The young assassin was taken aback. The fact that somebody was begging for their life, was new to him. His recent victims perished in battle. Or the murder occurred as suddenly that they had no chance to defend themselves. And then a woman like this ... she might be not older than twenty, had a beautiful face, skin as soft as silk, eyes like deep green lakes of innocence; she smelled like a rose in May. Could there not be a way to spare her? "Do not worry, honey. I won't kill you."

"But you wanted, right? It was your job."

Now Zevran was confused, "What makes you think that, my dear?"

"I'm not stupid," the young mage said firmly. "I did not believe for one moment you were an ambassador."

"Why ..." The assassin came really to ponder "... have you admitted then that I'm with you in the coach, why did you not warn the guard, why did you sleep?"

She snorted softly. "I did not sleep. I waited for what would happen and when you killed my guard, I realized that I was not wrong - they had set the Crows after me!"

"How do you know so much? Whom are you working for?" the assassin asked.

She gently took his head and pulled an ear to her lips.. "Lorenzo is interested to acquire his own crow cell, he plans an open war against Arainai. You are involved, aren't you? Maybe we could come to an agreement we could all benefited from?"

Suddenly the cart jerked, the horses shied and caprioled, the coach moved forward by leaps and bounds and eventually overturned. The mage, who had almost perched on Zevrans lap, was thrown backwards with the neck against the back seat. Zevran heard a distinct crack. He himself hurtled through the air, but could absorb the fall with his arms and legs.

For a moment all was quiet. Then the assassin heard steps. Someone knocked on the coach cabine, "Oh Maker, everything all right in there?" the coachman asked in his broad provincial dialect, "Is anyone hurt?"

The young assassin looked around and found the sorceress stuck between the seats. Her head lay in a very unhealthy angle to the body. A buckle of her shoe had come loose and lay beside her on the floor. The assassin took it and put it in his pocket. He crawled out of one of the broken window, rubbing the bruises on the arms and legs, he also had numerous small cuts "I fine. but I'm am afraid the other two are dead" he said with a facial expression of deepest regret.

"Oh, Andraste! What am I doing now?" The driver was standing next to his carriage and shook his head in despair.

"Where are we, good man, and what actually happened?" Zevran asked the driver and comforting laid a hand on the man's shoulder.

"A snake, a snake was on the way. The horses went insane, they bolted ... We are halfway to Genellan," the coachman said.

"Genellan? I thought we were on our way to Treviso?" the assassin asked with unfeigned surprise.

The driver shrugged his shoulders: "It was an instruction of the young lady."

Zevran had to be careful not to start laughing out loud. Whatever the mage had planned to do in Genallan - one thing was clear - she had lied to him. What a sneaky little whore, he thought.

"I take one of your horses, my good man, I must fulfill my mission."

His riding lessons with the Crows were already a while back. There were a few months in his last training year. It had given him a lot of fun, and he could still remember everything. However, he had wondered to this day,when he would ever need it. He slackened one of the horses of the coach, swung to the saddle loose animal and tested whether it responded to the pressure of his legs. It did - it was used to a rider.

The driver stayed behind him and waved at the loss. What a mess ...

* * *

_A few notes about the last two chapters: Who knows Zevran's dialogues well, will have realized that I here describe his first two missions: the Rivaini merchant prince of whom Zevran said, he was his very first mission, and when he killed him, he wore a single, jeweled earring, and nothing else. And the mage in the coach, of whom Zevran said, she was his second job._

_The story of the merchant prince I have designed more detailed and wanted to give it more importance, because I needed a logical reason, why the Crows have Zevran ever accepted back into their ranks, after he had fled to the Dalish. There are basically some inconsistencies in Zevrans stories, this is one of them: He keeps saying, the Crows would treat each of their members as "expendable commodity", one would be basically worthless - if you do not fulfill a mission you are "outlaw" if you try to escape them, as well. When he was reaccepted after his trip to the Dalish, there must have been a special reason, and at least some of the "higher" Crows would have established an exception for his person. (another possibility would be, that these thoughts of being an expendable commodity only came to his mind after the Rinna-mission - it could be injured pride. Because that was his last experience with the Crows, it was not so long ago and the reason to leave them. So maybe it's just prevarication. It's a problem that we only know about the Crows from Zevran's point of view - and we know that he is not always honest...)_

_Second Mission - again there were some inconsistencies in Zevrans story:_  
_1. How should it have looked like an accident when Zevran first killed the guard? - The death of the guard had to be clarified._  
_2. How should the driver be informed of the change of voyage, when the two were all the time sitting together in the closed cabine? I have changed the story to the effect that Zevran believed the trip would go to Treviso (I did not find a note as to where the tower of the Magi in Antiva is exactly, I have it now based in Treviso. I can change it, if it ever should be necessary;)), and the mage had instructed the coachman to drive a different route from the beginning. _  
_3. It is very unlikely that Zevran would have admitted to talk to the mage, if she had really tried to kill him twice - one of them would already have been dead after the first attempt. I think this is so for a "dramatic embellishment". ;)_  
_For the rest of the story, I tried to make a reasonably logical, understandable construct of it. (Of course, I could have installed a love scene - but I think, that would be the first thing Zevran would invent. ;)) In terms of the conclusion, the scene should work now: Zevran was surprised that the coach had a different destination than expected, he did not actually kill the mage, the Tower of the Magi would probably not become suspicious, because the whole thing now, in fact, "looked like an accident" (also for the guard) and the Master may have been enthusiastic._


	27. Chapter 27: The Signs of Falon'Din

**4.7 The Signs of Falon'Din**

Taliesen had tears of laughter in his eyes. "That was awesome, Zevran, so awesome! Tell the story again ..."

"So, the pretty mage and I were just wrapped in a tight kiss, when she suddenly lost her footing and fell from the treshold ..."

"Hasn't she just fallen against the back seat?" Taliesen objected.

"And didn't you say, you were just about to touch up her bosom?" Ginera asked.

"Whatever," the young assassin winked. "In any case, she broke her neck, and then the carter came and said..."

Until late at night Zevran celebrated the success of his second mission with Taliesen and Ginera. They had ordered a large bottle of brandy in the "Silver Anchor" and had drunk properly. Ginera and Taliesen had finally taken a room. Zevran left the restaurant, the opened bottle he took with him. He planned to walk along the seaside out of the city until he reached the open beach. He wanted to sit in the sand, enjoying the warm spring night and celebrate a little for himself.

The young elf looked at the sky. The night was starry. As back when he sought the way to the Dalish, as then by the lake. Later, many nights were dull - on his return to the city or when he killed Trinibelli. The night in which he had ridden the horse of the driver back into the town, was a milky moonlight night. Stars were barely visible, but the disk of the moon appeared oversized, dispersing in the soft clouds.

The assassin thought about the moment when he had killed Trinibelli. He had hated this man so much. To conceal this hate, even needing to be tender to him, to please him had been extremely difficult. He could only endure that because he saw the aim. When the merchant prince finally laid dead under him - this feeling of power and satisfaction, he will never forget. It was even stronger than it was with Goisar.

The mage - that was different. Exactly the opposite. Endearment would have been easy for him. But to kill her... There was a brief moment of doubt - in his task, his vocation. The accident, her death and the realization that she had wanted to deceive him, had shown him two things: There was hardly anyone who was as innocent that he did not deserve to die. And he as an assassin, was nothing more than an instrument of a fate that would happen anyway. Everyone would die one day. He was one who paved the way, one among many.

At the guards, he had killed during his missions, he hardly thought. They were like him - they had a dangerous profession. And they died because they were poorer in their jobs than he. One day it would be reversed. He had already seen many die in the Crows. And he knew just a few who were - as Master Antonio - older than forty. At some point agility and strength started to wane. And if it was not that, then they died of their own arrogance, the illusion of invulnerability, which made them careless.

* * *

Zevran had almost reached the outskirts when he heard a howl. Astonished, the assassin looked around and saw a wolf on the harbor wall. The animal was sitting on its hind legs and looked straight into the direction of the young elf. The coat pattern and the shape of the head resembled those of the red wolves. But this one was bigger and it was ... translucent. Skeptically Zevran looked at the bottle of Antiva brandy in his hand: These were probably a few gulps too much, he thought. And yet he was fascinated by the mysterious animal, he approached it. The animal got up and started walking away from him. But that was not an escape. It kept stopping, as if it would look if he followed it, as if to show him a way. Worried, but very excited Zevran followed the mysterious creature into the darkness. The ghost wolf was guiding him through the alleys of the docklands to the riverbank.

The river was in full spate at the end of the rainy season. Several terraces of the river banks were flooded, only the top was still accessible. The wolf went to that bank and sat down. Next to the animal something swam in the water. It was a body - the corpse of a young elf with brown skin and black hair. He swam with his back up and the hair was short, in a way, as though someone had just cut off the braids. Zevran guessed who it was. He crouched down and turned the corpse. Despite the drift marks on his forehead and nose, the sign of Andruil and the fine, serious features were still recognizable, even in the by water swollen face. In the skin of the young Dalish elf were several deep cuts. These were not just any cuts, they were signs of elven characters - symbols of Falon'Din. The stiff hands clutched a knife handle, the blade was stuck in the heart. Carefully Zevran dissolved the hands from the knife and pulled it out. It was one of those knives, the Dalish used for carving. He pocketed it.

For a moment he was just sitting next to the body, unsure what to do and felt a bitter black lump in his stomach. The wolf sat beside him and looked at him, from sad, brown eyes. Finally Zevran got up and ran towards the fishing port. He took one of the boats, the first at the dock and pulled it at the rope along the river until he arrived at Sûls corpse. With almost tender care he lifted the corpse and laid it in the boat. He moved the boat back to port and continued his way past the landing stages, until he reached the open sea.

* * *

The morning dawned. The Rialto bay turned red to a magnificent sunrise. It was spring in Antiva, the jewel in the sand bloomed. Zevran poured the remains of the brandy over Sûls corpse. He inflamed the boat with a sulfuric match and pushed it forcefully into the sea until it was acquired by the current of the river delta and carried away. He paused a moment and looked behind the burning boat. His good boots were soaked from the salty water. Finally, he looked around for the wolf. The animal was sitting on the beach. It looked at him again, then turned and ran away. With each step, it was more transparent, until it was completely dissolved and disappeared.

== The End ==

* * *

_This was the last chapter of "An Assassin's Childhood". There will be an epilogue - I'll publish it tomorrow. It doesn't really belong to the story, but it might be interesting for all who liked Sûl. And in a few days I will start to publish the sequel "Antivan Episodes" on FF._

_Many thanks to everyone who followed, favorited or reviewed my story. Special thanks to Urd85613 and most of all Melysande - I really appreciated your kind reviews. :)_


	28. Chapter 28: Epilogue - Sûl's Last Winter

_This story wasn't actually planned but I *had* to write it (the thoughts were in my mind for two days and one night and I couldn't even sleep). So - it's the epilogue now._

_Many thanks Korina1982 for beta-reading! Also - thanks again for reading and reviewing my story, Melysande. :)_

* * *

**Epilogue: Sûl's Last Winter**

He could not sleep. With open eyes he lay in the big tent, between all the others. Of course, he had noticed that _he _was not there. He had not heard Zevran saying a word all day. Silent, withdrawn and absent-minded the blond elf had appeared, quite differently from how he had known him otherwise. But whom he had known? The boy who had hurled all these terrible words at him, certainly not. And if that was really a part of Zevran, he did not want to know him anymore. At least he told himself that way. But his heart ... that was of quite a different opinion. It ached with concern, where he might be, what he was doing out there in the rain, certainly still feverish and sick...

Sûl got up and slipped out of the tent. The night was cloudy and rainy. He could hardly see the next Aravel. He went to the family's aravel in the hope of finding Zevran asleep there. But it was empty. He looked around in the whole camp and could find him nowhere. Sighing, the Dalish returned back to his sleeping place. His fatigue finally knocked him into a fitful sleep.

Then the morning dawned. They broke the tent and wanted to go off. Not only Sûl, also Morneryn, Tathar, the girls Shannon and Hilija were searching for Zevran. They asked the guards about him. "Enough," the old Keeper finally said. "He has gone, I do not think he will return." Einiora looked sad but decisive. "We have to start out." Sûl knew she was right. No one would find a lad like Zevran if he did not want to be found.

* * *

The southern Drylands were an ideal location during the rainy season. During the summer the land was barren and desolate, the water holes dried up. Now it was pleasantly warm, it was raining off and on, but less than in the south; and there were plenty of edible plants, huntable game.

Sûl had always liked the winter months. He enjoyed the special climate, the atmosphere on the edge of the great desert. But this winter he could not return to his usual light-heartedness. The anger towards Zevran was soon gone. Instead, he felt every day how much he missed the other elf. And the self-blame began... Again and again he thought of their last conversation. The Dalish was sure that he had done something wrong. That it had been his words that had scared his friend away. He would still be here, he would have stayed with us, with me, if only I had not been so stupid ...

Stupid? But how could he have guessed... How would he know that Zevran would react in such a horrific way to the word "love"? What did he know about the other boy? It just happened, aimlessly, that he had admired him, adored him, fallen in love... But he knew nothing about his past. He had always had the feeling there was more, that Vhenan might have been right to be skeptical. But he had never dared to ask questions, pursued by a stupid fear he would destroy something - the friendship or his own illusion.

Grief and pain made the winter days seem long and dull. There were also nightmares in which he saw Zevran in danger - seriously ill or injured, and he was rooted to the ground and could not run to his friend to help him. His parents noticed that something was wrong with him. They tried repeatedly to start a conversation with him, he fended off everything. His mother regularly invited girls from the village for dinner. She would never understand, even if he ever tried to explain...

Vhenan came to him one morning as he sat outside the tent, listlessly carving a piece of wood. His breakfast had, as in all previous weeks, barely been touched. He had only swallowed a few bites, out of courtesy to his parents to not worry so much about him. His sister sat next to him. She took his hand which was holding the knife, and pressed it gently. "You miss him, right?"

Sûl could not answer. This contact, the sympathetic tone had opened a sluice. He felt a violent lurch in his heart, his throat closed up, his eyes filled with tears that ran down the cheeks, he started shaking. Vhenan took the carving and the knife out of her brother's hands, knelt before him and embraced him silently until he had finished weeping. Then she stroked one of the tears from his cheeks with her thumb. She opened her mouth as if she wanted to say something, but there was nothing left to say. The siblings understood each other in their grief.

And they did not. Because it was something else, to lose the man one loves in an accident, compared to being convinced he had gone because of one's own stupidity. He could not forgive himself. And what was worse - he felt he had not only led himself, but also the other elf to their doom. The life of an elf in the city could never be a good one, he was convinced of that all the more by his own experience. And was this not the reason for Zevran to release him and to flee to them? Perhaps the other was already dead .. He should have been more focused on him, should have to been more sensitive and careful with his words and feelings. But what was the use of such thoughts? It was too late.

* * *

The winter passed. The pain, the sorrow had not abated over all those months. He spoke to no one, just strictly did any work he had been told. He could feel no joy, sunlight hurt his eyes. When the clan returned to the summer camp, it became unbearable. Everything was a reminder of _him_. He saw him at the guard posts, at the waterhole, in the camp between the tents. It cut of his air supply.

What kind of prospects would he have? One day, he would probably have to take a woman whom he could not love. This idea did not only seem to be cruel for himself but also for the woman. Or to flee again to the city? Searching for him? Even if he would find him, Zevran would rebuff him, he was sure. But it was more likely that he would again be taken up by slave traders.

None of these ideas seemed worth living to the young Dalish. And since he could not longer bear the pain, there was soon only one thought, just one path he saw before him. And the last question that worried him were the stories he had been told as a child. Perhaps they should only give the children a fright, perhaps they were nothing more than superstition, but if they were true... If it was really true that Falon'Din looked away from those who chose their death voluntarily, then he would be helpless, at the demons' mercy in the beyond...

Sûl pretended he would search for wood and took his carving knife along. His goal was the river, which had become broad and turbulent at the end of the rainy season . First he cut off his thick black braids and threw them into the water. Then he took off his armor. It was valuable, perhaps someone else could still use it... "Falon'Din guide me. Friend of the dead, deliver me," he whispered. Tears were running down his cheeks as he stitched the signs in his body.

* * *

_**Preview - Antivan Episodes**_

_The story of Zevran's childhood is finished. But it will still take more than six years, until Zevran goes to Ferelden with the order to kill the Grey Wardens. What happened in that time?_

_What becomes of the Manicos and the Lorenzos?_

_How will the relationship between Zevran and Taliesen develop?_

_Will Antonio remain the master of the Arainai cell?_

_But most of all - how, where and when will Zevran meet Rinna?_

_You want to know how my story about Zevran's childhood and youth goes on? Then read the Antivan Episodes. Coming soon on fanfiction net. ;)_


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